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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The radio station where the loyal listeners are chickens

Emma Hills, the head chicken trainer at Giffords Circus, knows what gets them clucking.

“The music is for the chickens, because of course on the night the music is very loud, and so it needs to be a part of their environment from the very start.” Emma Hills, the head chicken trainer at Giffords Circus, is standing in the sawdusty ring under a big top in a field outside Stroud as several rare-breed chickens wander freely around boxes and down ramps. They are the comic stars of the summer 2017 show, and Emma is coaxing them to walk insouciantly around the ring while she plays the early-morning show on Radio 1.

It’s the chickens’ favourite station. There seems to be something about its longueurs, combined with the playlist, that gets them going – if that’s the word. They really do respond to the voices and songs. “It’s a bit painful, training,” Emma observes, as she moves a little tray of worms into position as a lure. “It’s a bit like watching paint dry sometimes. It’s all about repetition.”

Beyond the big top, a valley folds into limestone hills covered in wild parsley and the beginnings of elderblossom. Over the radio, Adele Roberts (weekdays, from 4am) hails her listeners countrywide. “Hello to Denzel, the happy trucker going north on the M6. And van driver Niki on the way from Norwich to Coventry, delivering all the things.” Pecking and quivering, the chickens are rather elegant, each with its fluffy, caramel-coloured legs and explosive feather bouffant, like a hat Elizabeth Taylor might have worn on her way to Gstaad in the 1970s.

Despite a spell of ennui during the new Harry Styles single, enthusiasm resumes as Adele bids “hello to Simon from Bournemouth on the M3 – he’s on his way to Stevenage delivering meat”. I don’t imagine Radio 1 could hope for a better review: to these pretty creatures, its spiel is as thrilling as opening night at the circus. Greasepaint, swags of velvet, acrobats limbering up with their proud, ironic grace. Gasps from beholders rippling wonder across the stalls.

Emma muses that her pupils learn fast. Like camels, a chicken never forgets.

“I’ve actually given up eating them,” she admits. “Last year I had only two weeks to train and it was like, ‘If they pull this off I won’t eat chicken ever again.’ And they did. So I didn’t.” 

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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