When punk rock ruled over Ulster

Reviewed: Good Vibrations.

Good Vibrations tells three stories. One is the story of Terri Hooley, the one-eyed “godfather of Irish punk” who set about the restoration of Belfast’s youth culture in the early 1970s. In the film, Hooley (Richard Dormer) opens a record shop, founds a label, struggles with money and neglects his pregnant wife, played by Jodie Whittaker. He is determined to live by his instincts and forget about The Troubles. In the process he introduces the world to Ulster’s finest punk bands - Rudi, The Outcasts and The Undertones - and gives John Peel his favourite song: “Teenage Kicks”.

And this is the second story: the music born out of that moment, how it attempted to reanimate a static generation with little to hope for. The film captures the energy magnificently. There is a scene in which Hooley, who has so far been peddling folk, blues and rock ‘n’ roll, follows a safety-pinned adolescent to a gig in a working men’s club, and finally gets punk. It’s blissful. One of my biggest movie bugbears is the aggressive fading-out of background noise and fading-in of studio silence perceptible before a musical number. Not here. The soundtrack weaves naturally and ceaselessly into the plot, and the loudness, shock and presence of the band in the room will be recognisable to anyone who’s ever been to a DIY gig in a function room or church hall. Hooley's damascene awakening is euphoric.

The film possesses the qualities of an aging rocker’s scrapbook. Archive footage, annotation and Gondry-esque interludes patch together the scene building montages and intimate biographical moments between Hooley and his family. Dylan Moran makes an appearance (little more than a cameo, though worth every second) as a weary landlord whose empty bar is festooned in mesh and surveillance equipment. It demands a few poetic liscences, quick jumps through time, anachronistic references and a slightly triumphalist ending - but all are forgivable. Above all it is hilarious, sincere and heartfelt.

The third story that the movie tells, it's not-so-hidden backdrop, is one we know all too well: the segregation, poverty, violence and vigilantism that fragmented Northern Ireland from the 1960s on. Hooley stares them all down, as the man who inspired the film continues to do. In October last year the real Terri Hooley (who appears briefly in the film as an out of tune accordionist) was attacked while out walking his dog. “Fenian lover,” they scowled at him. “You're a disgrace to the Protestant community.” Good Vibrations opens Belfast up to a new point of view. It refuses any notion of “sides”. The bars, streets and venues are not seen looking in, as in the news, but from the inside looking out.

Behold! Richard Dormer and Michael Colgan in Good Vibrations. Photo: BBC.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Against the Law: Peter Wildeblood must be one of the bravest men who ever lived

BBC2's historical gay rights film evokes bewilderment, fear and agonising pain.

My head told me that Against the Law (26 July, 9pm), the BBC’s film about Peter Wildeblood, the only openly gay man to give evidence to Lord Wolfenden’s committee, wasn’t up to much. Wildeblood was one of the three men who in 1954 were convicted of buggery in the notorious Montagu case (the others being Lord Montagu of Beaulieu and his cousin Michael Pitt-Rivers) – a trial that led, thanks to unease about the verdict, to the inquiry that resulted in the Wolfenden report, which in 1957 recommended the decriminalisation of homosexuality in Britain.

The film is based on the book Wildeblood published (he was a journalist) after his release from Wormwood Scrubs. Its script, by Brian Fillis, was underpowered and off-puttingly didactic, and I couldn’t understand, at first, the decision to keep interrupting the drama with the spoken-to-camera recollections of a series of elderly gay men. But at some point my heart, which was aching, told my head to shut up. This is… good enough, I thought, watching the film’s last few moments, in which the 89-year-old Roger and the 77-year-old Percy tenderly kissed for the camera. I was mad for Roger. Did he remember Wolfenden? My dear, how could he ever forget it? At the time, he was having an affair with Lord Wolfenden’s son, Jeremy, which certainly added piquancy to the newspaper reports as he read them over breakfast.

If I’d been casting this piece, I might have gone for a floppy-haired Matthew Goode type for Wildeblood, the former public school boy – but that would have been my mistake. It’s hard to imagine a finer performance than the one given by Daniel Mays, an actor who is not even remotely floppy haired.

Here was all of the wit and compassion you find in Wildeblood’s prose, combined with emotions I’d hitherto only been able rather half-heartedly to imagine: bewilderment, fear, agonising pain. As Wildeblood watched his former lover, an RAF corporal called Edward McNally, turn Queen’s evidence during his trial, May’s face grew slack with disbelief. He looked, to me, as if some unknown hand was quietly disembowelling him. By which had he been most betrayed? Love, or the law of the land?

Everyone knows what followed, but it was horrible to see nevertheless. Mailbags were sewn; aversion therapy was discussed (the prison shrink, played with viper-like precision by Mark Gatiss, told Wildeblood he could either receive a series of electric shocks or a drug that would make him vomit for two days). I thought, not for the first time, that Wildeblood must have been one of the bravest men who ever lived – though it’s not as if he wanted for company: the director’s talking heads, silver of hair and soft of jowl, reminded us of this at every turn, and I was glad of the human punctuation they provided. For most of us, this stuff is history. For them, it had been life.

Some people are devoted to newts, and others to hobbits; a few enjoy recreating the battles of the Civil War. The film My Friend Jane (17 July, 7pm) got down and not very dirty with the Austen super-fans, by which I mean not those who have read Sanditon and The Watsons but types who like to dress in full Regency garb and dance to the sound of a spinet come Saturday night. Actually, it’s scarier than this. A former doctor, Joana Starnes, breathlessly described her new career as a writer of “top-tier JAF”. Translated, this means highly superior Jane Austen fan fiction. She’s produced seven JAF novels, which sounds like a lot until you discover that 60 come out every month.

Zack Pinsent, meanwhile, who is 22, makes his living as a period tailor in Hove, where he likes to promenade in fall-front trousers – a flap enables the gentleman thereby to pee – and top hat. I wanted to laugh at him, and all the other empire-line eccentrics in this odd little documentary. But there was something touching about their obsession; at least they didn’t attempt to intellectualise it, unlike those literary fan girls who have lately taken to writing entire books about why their lives would be meaningless without this or that great writer for company. 

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 27 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Summer double issue