Way out in the Wild East

The bells, the bells! The Bow Bells, that is. Wild Bill, a confident first feature that sets the former actor Dexter Fletcher on the frog-and-toad to a promising filmmaking career, is a right proper bleedin' ding-dong and no mistake. Well worth a butcher's. Sorry, just to check: have I conveyed sufficiently that Wild Bill is not only set in London's East End, but that it has that area's cheerfully scuzzy atmosphere clinging to it like cigarette smoke? One is simply never certain if one's subtle messages are being successfully transmitted.

Even if my understated wordplay has not given the game away, the cast should do the trick: Neil Maskell (Kill List), Jason Flemyng (Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels), Andy Serkis as a drugs kingpin with creepy leather gloves and a faraway stare. Lots of other likely lads whom you've seen brandishing a cosh or a Stanley knife in the obscure corners of British cinema and television. Jaime Winstone makes a brief appearance. Her father, Ray, would be forgiven for wondering why he wasn't invited to the party. It's not technically the East End without Ray, is it?

Wild Bill marks a corking debut from Fletcher and an overdue showcase for one of Britain's most underrated actors, Charlie Creed-Miles. He plays Bill Hayward, a once-legendary gangster now stumbling out of prison in a rustling shell-suit and finding the world radically altered after his eight-year spell inside. He has two sons, 15-year-old Dean (Will Poulter) and 10-year-old Jimmy (Sammy Williams), who are fending for themselves in a Stratford tower block. Despite having been deserted by their mother, Dean is in no mood to welcome back this emaciated, bristle-faced ghost. The movie is about Bill's efforts to win over his boys without slipping back into his old thuggish life. That sounds soft, and it is. But the film's gentleness sets it apart.

I liked its mythical feel: the misty streets, the references to the Wild West (such as the tattoo on Bill's chest: a sheriff's badge with a British Rail logo inside) and a striking scene in which Bill and Jimmy throw paper aeroplanes from their high-rise balcony. One of Fletcher's smartest decisions was to set and shoot the whole thing within sight of the Olympic building project; Dean has a job on the construction site ("Grab a shovel and dig me a velodrome," barks his boss) and we can see the stadiums taking shape in the distance of many shots. This will make it a poignant time capsule for future audiences in much the same way that The Long Good Friday (in which Fletcher himself had a small role as a young urchin) and Close My Eyes have become cinematic markers in the evolution of the Docklands. But the Olympic backdrop also enriches our understanding of the characters' desperate lives. All that ostentatious profligacy administers a daily dose of salt to their wounds.

Another excellent choice was to give Creed-Miles the best role he's had since Gary Oldman's Nil By Mouth, where he played Billy, a gormless smack addict. In Wild Bill, he makes his character's transformation seem both surprising and genuinely hard-won, and he brings palpable remorse and disgust to a slightly over-written speech about the agony of prison life. That scene creates one of those instances of accidental continuity between unconnected performances: at the end of Nil By Mouth, the family members set off on a prison visit to see Billy; now here he is, as Bill, reflecting on those years spent festering behind bars.

Creed-Miles has been careful in his career to give a wide berth to the post-Lock, Stock fad for Mockney malarkey. When I interviewed him in 2000 he was bemoaning the bad press for his latest film Essex Boys, a real-life crime story which had been accused of glamorising violence:

"Essex Boys is suffering, I believe, for the sins of all these films that I've been turning down. Love, Honour and Obey, Rancid Aluminium -- I could've been in all those, that's a fact, but if you instantly dislike the script, it's a bad sign. I was only able to do Essex Boys because I believed in the material, and believed that it wasn't glorifying violence. I'm very proud that we haven't got celebrity gangsters in our film -- it really annoys me when these horrible people get turned into folk heroes. It's not my fault that people are writing gangster scripts ten to the dozen. But I refuse to deploy my talents willy-nilly."

Nice one, sunshine. Sweet as.

 

Wild Bill is released on Friday.

 

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.

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Yes, you could skip brunch and save for a deposit on a house. But why?

You'd be missing out. 

There’s a tiny café round the corner from me, a place so small that you have to leave your Bugaboo pushchair outside (a serious consideration in this part of the world), which has somehow become famous across town for its brunch. At weekends, the queue spills on to the road, with people patiently waiting for up to an hour for pancakes, poached eggs and pondy-looking juices served in jam jars. The food is just as good later on, yet there’s rarely much of a line after 2pm, because brunch is cool in a way that lunch isn’t. Where lunch is quotidian, brunch feels decadent – a real weekend treat.

Though the phenomenon is hardly new – the term was coined by a Brit back in 1895 – brunch has always been more popular in the United States than here, possibly because it’s a meal that you generally go out for and eating out has long been more affordable, and thus common, across the pond. Despite our proud greasy-spoon heritage, the idea of brunch as an occasion with a distinct character, rather than just a wickedly late breakfast, is relatively recent, and it owes much to the increasing informality of 21st-century life.

The Little Book of Brunch by Caroline Craig and Sophie Missing revels in the freedom that the occasion bestows upon the cook, falling as it does outside the long-established conventions of the three-meal
structure. “It’s the meal where you can get away with anything,” they write.

By way of proof, along with eggs Benedict and buttermilk waffles, the book features such novelties as ’nduja-and-egg pizza, spaghetti frittatas and lentil falafels – dishes that you could quite respectably serve for lunch or dinner, yet also contain the cosseting, comforting qualities necessary in a first meal of the day.

Though such culinary experimentation is no doubt attractive to the increasingly adventurous British palate, I suspect that the arrival on these shores of the “bottomless brunch”, a hugely popular trend in the US, may also have something to do with our new enthusiasm for the meal – to the concern of health experts, given that Americans seem better able to grasp the idea of drinking as many Bloody Marys as they can handle, rather than as many as they want.

As David Shaftel put it in an op-ed for the New York Times entitled, wonderfully, “Brunch is for jerks”, this meal is “about throwing out not only the established schedule but also the social conventions of our parents’ generation . . . revelling in the naughtiness of waking up late, having cocktails at breakfast and eggs all day. It’s the mealtime equivalent of a Jeff Koons sculpture.”

The Australian social commentator Bernard Salt agrees, blaming this taste for “smashed avocado with crumbled feta on five-grain toasted bread at $22 a pop” for the younger generation’s failure to grow up, take responsibility and save enough money to buy a house. But as critics observed, house prices in Sydney, like those in the UK, are now so high that you’d have to forgo your weekly avo toast for 175 years in order to put together a deposit, and so, perhaps, it’s not unreasonable to want to live in the moment instead. “We are not going out for brunch instead of buying houses: we are brunching because we cannot afford to buy houses,” as the journalist Brigid Delaney wrote in response.

Baby boomers got the free education, the generous pensions and the houses and left us with shakshuka, sourdough and a flat white. Seems like a fair deal. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 20 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, May's gamble

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