Gilbey on Film: 44 Inch Chest -- and a very naughty word

Our film critic on swearing in movies.

Rich, vigorous and inventive swearing on film is hard to come by now -- either that or I'm inured to it -- but there's a foul-mouthed feast for the ears in 44 Inch Chest. This Pinteresque British film, released last month, is about a group of splenetic thugs who kidnap a young waiter who has cuckolded one of their number. While not especially distinguished, the picture has three things going for it: a rasping, rancid-looking John Hurt; the honey-voiced, smooth-as-a-bullet Ian McShane; and some of the ripest, most rhythmic use of verbal obscenities since David Mamet sustained a paper cut immediately after stubbing his toe.

In his New Yorker review of 44 Inch Chest, David Denby wrote: "The men take turns screaming at the silent Loverboy, as they call him, relying on extensive use of Britain's favorite four-letter word (not the same as America's favorite four-letter word)."

Woah there! Now wait just a minute. Is this really how the Manhattan cognoscenti regard us? (And have they never seen Curb Your Enthusiasm?) It's true that I haven't heard the word to which Mr Denby is referring -- we'll call it "clod" -- spill from the mouth of an actual American person, as opposed to a movie character, whereas in Britain you need only reach for the last tube of Werther's Originals in the shop to be branded a clod by the seething shopper who's next in line. But if all you had to go on was TV and cinema, you could hardly argue that we are a nation of clod-utterers. Unless, that is, you spent all your free time watching Danny Dyer movie marathons, and that's something you wouldn't wish on anyone, not even Danny Dyer.

I'm not sure where to cast my vote for Best Use of "Clod" In a Motion Picture. Withnail and I ("Monty, you terrible clod!") has to be a contender, but I find the word even more abrasive in the generally softer American accent, where it takes a moment to register what's been said. What a shock it was to hear Woody Allen deploy the insult in Deconstructing Harry; the BBFC clearly agreed, and gave Allen his first 18-certificate (for its "coarse language"). Even nastier was hearing Al Pacino use the word to diminish Kevin Spacey in the scalding film version of Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross.

I'll put an early bet on young Chloe Moretz to steal Pacino's crown when Kick-Ass, the forthcoming movie about DIY superheroes, opens here in April. Looking like a kid who should be plaiting the manes of her My Little Ponies, Moretz (a veteran of the TV series My Friends Tigger and Pooh, and just 12 when Kick-Ass was shot) delivers the "British" word with a lip-smacking ferociousness that would make Danny Dyer sob into his monogrammed West Ham handkerchief. The director of Kick-Ass, Matthew Vaughn, is British, while the comic-book series from which it is adapted is American. Under the rules of the Denby test, we'll call that one a draw.

The picture has already caused a minor storm in Australia, where it has been rated "MA". I'm not entirely familiar with the Aussie ratings system, but this denotes either that anyone under 15 can see the film only in the company of an adult, or that admission is granted only to those with a postgraduate degree.

Ryan Gilbey blogs for Cultural Capital every Tuesday. He is also the New Statesman's film critic.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

Gallery Stock
Show Hide image

Beware of tea: the cuppa has started wars and ruined lives

. . . and it once led F Scott Fitzgerald to humiliate himself.

A drink sustains me – one that steams companionably as I write. It is hot, amber and fragranced differently from any wine; nor does it have wine’s capacity to soften and blur. I’ve never understood how the great drunks of literature, Ernest Hemingway, F Scott Fitzgerald and their like, ever put anything on the page more worthwhile than a self-involved howl, though even Hemingway apparently finished the day’s writing before beginning the day’s drinking.

Tea is more kindly, or so I’d always thought. Those aromatic leaves, black or green, rolled and dried and oxidised, have some of wine’s artistry but none of its danger. Even their exoticism has waned, from a Chinese rarity (“froth of the liquid jade”), for which 17th-century English traders were made to pay in solid silver, to a product that can be found dirt cheap on supermarket shelves.

There are even home-grown teas now. The Tregothnan estate in Cornwall has supplemented its ornamental rhododendrons and camellias with their relative camellia sinensis, the tea plant, while Dalreoch in the Scottish Highlands grows a white (that is, lightly oxidised) tea, which is smoked using wood from the surrounding birch plantations. Tellingly, this local version is priced as steeply as the imported rarity once was.

I enjoy a simple, solitary mug, but I also appreciate communal tea-drinking – the delicate tea warmed with water at 85°C (a little higher for sturdier black blends), the teapot and china, the pourer volunteering to be “mother”, as if this were a liquid that could nurture. But in reality, tea is not so gentle.

Those long-ago English traders disliked haemorrhaging silver, so they started exporting opium to China from India and paying with that. This was a fabulous success, unless you happened to be Chinese. In 1839, a commissioner attempted to clamp down on the illegal and harmful trade, and the result was the Opium Wars, which the Chinese lost. “Gunboat diplomacy” – a phrase that surely constitutes froth of a different kind – won England a great deal of silver, a 150-year lease on Hong Kong and an open tea market. China received a potful of humiliation that may eventually have helped spark the Communist Revolution. As many of us have recently realised, there is nothing like economic mortification to galvanise a nation to kick its leaders.

Later, the tea bush was planted in India, Ceylon and elsewhere, and the fragrant but bitter brew for the upper classes became a ubiquitous fuel. But not an entirely sweet one: just as the opium trade ensured our tea’s arrival in the pot, the slave trade sweetened it in the cup. Even today, conditions for tea workers in places such as Assam in north-east India are often appalling.

Scott Fitzgerald also had tea trouble. When invited round by Edith Wharton, he frothed the liquid jade so assiduously with booze beforehand and risqué conversation during (a story about an American tourist couple staying unawares in a Paris bordello) that he was nearly as badly humiliated as those 19th-century Chinese. Wharton, unshocked, merely wondered aloud what the couple had done in the bordello and afterwards pronounced the entire occasion “awful”.

Some would blame his alcoholic preliminaries, but I’m not so sure. Tea has started wars and ruined lives; we should be wary of its consolations. On that sober note, I reach for the corkscrew and allow the subject to drive me softly, beguilingly, to drink.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 27 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Cool Britannia 20 Years On

0800 7318496