In Ron Peck's "Nighthawks", the Seventies gay scene looks pretty dour. Image: BFI
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Revisiting "Nighthawks", a film with the most extraordinary coming-out scene

“Are you bent? Are you queer?”

To BFI Southbank this week for a rare screening of Nighthawks, Ron Peck’s 1978 film about a London geography teacher, Jim (Ken Robertson), and his repetitive and frustrating life: drab days at work, the odd evening out with a colleague, nights spent silently scouring gay clubs and bars until he finds someone new with whom he can strike up the same conversation he had the last time he was there.

He’s looking for love but it doesn’t want to be found. He is a nondescript, soft-faced fellow, a miniature Robert Powell and, it must be said, extraordinarily unlucky. A couple of pick-ups see him for more than one date. For the most part, though, his encounters lead only to sex or to promises to call which have no intention of being kept.

I last saw the film when it was screened on Channel 4 in 1985. I was 14. There was a frisson of danger surrounding it, as there was with any film shown on Channel Four late at night, which is why I had a lie ready if my mum burst in to my room and asked what I was watching. I would tell her that it was a horror film called Dead. (There is no such film, though I still feel like it exists.) That would throw her off the scent alright.

My family had a joke about how I only liked films in which someone got their head chopped off. Horror was the perfect cover story. Little would they know that in this case, it wasn’t heads off, it was rocks off.

Channel 4 had recently run a series of “red triangle” movies – titles deemed to be so adult or potentially offensive in content that a tiny red triangle hovered in the corner of the screen at all times to spare the blushes of the innocent channel-surfer (though with only four channels to choose from back then, perhaps the term “channel-paddler” would be more apt).

I had misremembered Nighthawks as being a red triangle film but in fact it fell outside the season, though its screening did provoke the ire of the Mail and other tabloids. Not that there’s anything incendiary in it: just some heavy petting and the odd penis. Odd as in occasional, rather than quirky.

There was something else I had misremembered: the tone of the film. To my 14-year-old eyes, it was unremittingly bleak and miserable. I had recently heard for the first time Tom Robinson singing “Glad to be Gay” (the ferocious version he performs solo in The Secret Policeman’s Ball) but there was nothing very glad about Jim’s demeanour.

That’s the way I saw it anyway. Dingy rooms, pale bodies, downcast faces, a carousel of misery. The Conservative government, worried around this time about the promotion of homosexuality, implemented Clause 28. At 14, I felt like a compulsory screening of Nighthawks would have been a more effective deterrent.

I see it differently now. Sure, Jim is hardly the life and soul. And the gay scene looks pretty dour. But the director Ron Peck and his co-writer Paul Hallam are making some stylistic points about patterns of behaviour: their film is big on repetition. Every club plays the same pulsing electronic motif (we even hear it at Jim’s work party). Shots are repeated throughout the film, particularly driving shots, with the camera stationed on the back seat as Jim drops another one night stand off at the Tube the next morning. With this emphasis on repetition, the movie is urging Jim to make a decisive move – to break the cycle that is imprisoning and inhibiting him.

This he does in the most extraordinary scene in the film. Challenged in class by his pupils – “Are you bent? Are you queer?” – he comes out to them and faces their probing questions (“Do you wear women’s clothes? Do you carry a handbag?”) with calm, equanimity and compassion.

The staging of the scene is highly effective: we hardly see Jim at all, but the camera is placed in his stead so that the pupils seem to be hectoring and haranguing us directly. We are literally in Jim’s shoes. The scene, cut together from five takes shot over two days, is heated but never hysterical, and worthy of comparison to  Ken Loach (who gets a name-check when one of Jim’s colleagues lines up a screening of Cathy Come Home for her pupils).

I remember my classmates at school on Monday were all talking about the face-off between Jim and his pupils. None of us had liked the film exactly, but we had been electrified by that tension. We knew it. It was life.

Ron Peck was at the screening this week to discuss the making of the film. He had used ads in the gay press and Time Out to set out his stall and invite collaborators (this was how he met Hallam) to help him determine the shape of what was to be a truthful portrait of gay life in London, or to suggest locations, or to appear as extras. (He wrote to the Sunday Times and received a little shout-out from Dilys Powell in her column.)

He sent the script to esteemed filmmakers who offered their advice. The great directors Michael Powell and Lindsay Anderson were among those who contributed; Derek Jarman offered help and locations and also appears in the film, loitering enigmatically in a club.

Powell told Peck: “Don’t be afraid to show the male looking at the male.” Illuminating, pertinent advice for the man who captured the lustful, voyeuristic gaze himself in films like Peeping Tom and Black Narcissus; Anderson’s advice, Peck recalled, amounted to variations on telling him to kick out against the British film industry.

Of course, the film was made before there were any cases of Aids in the UK, which gives it an entirely unintended air of innocence and poignancy. It was also long before the brutal dating formats fostered by Grindr and Tinder. At a screening in Paris last year, someone came up to Peck and said: “People behaved much more kindly then.”

Nighthawks is available on BFI DVD

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.

Photo: Prime Images
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The Sad Part Was: this story collection puts the real Bangkok on display

Thai author Prabda Yoon descends into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters.

In Bangkok’s budding literary scene, Prabda Yoon sits at the centre. Born in 1973, he’s the scion of a well-known family (his father Suthichai Sae-Yoon is the co-founder of the Nation newspaper) and is known in Thailand as not only an enfant terrible of letters but as an illustrator, screen-writer and director (his first film, Motel Mist, was shown at European festivals in 2016).

His reputation rests mainly on a collection of short stories published in 2000 entitled in Thai Kwam Na Ja Pen, roughly translated as Probability, and it is from this early collection that most of the stories now collected in The Sad Part Was are derived. Translated with cool elegance by Mui Poopoksakul, they are among the first modern Thai stories to be published in the UK.

As Poopoksakul points out in her afterword, she and Yoon are the products of similar backgrounds and epochs: upper-middle class children of Bangkok who came to consciousness in the late Eighties and Nineties. Often foreign-educated, fluent in English and conversant in global pop culture and media – Yoon did a stint at Parsons in New York after prep school at the Cambridge School of Weston – this new generation of Thai writers and artists were born into a society changing so fast that they had to virtually invent a new language to transcribe it.

In The Sad Part Was, the result is stories that one could glibly label as “post-modern” but which, in reality, perfectly match the qualities of the megacity where they are set. Bangkok is infamously mired in lurid contradiction, but it’s also a city of subtle and distorted moods that journalism and film have hitherto mostly failed to capture. The whimsical and playful surfaces of these stories have to be read against the high-octane anxieties and surreal dislocations of what was, until recently, one of the fastest-growing cities in the world.

Yoon uses the short form of the ten-page story to descend into the voices and minds of a small cast of characters: a schoolgirl and a beautiful female teacher who form a platonic lesbian infatuation while riding a daily bus in “Miss Space”; a couple making love during a thunderstorm whose activities are interrupted by the dismantling of two giant letters, which fall onto their roof in “Something in the Air”; a young man who meets a mysterious older man in Lumpini Park called Ei Ploang, who forces him to consider the intertwined nature of good and evil. In “Snow for Mother”, a mother waits for her little boy to grow up so that she can take him to Alaska to experience the real snow, which he never knew as a little boy in the tropics.

In “The Sharp Sleeper”, a man named Natee obsesses over losing his shirt buttons and is led into a strange reverie on the nature of dreams and the competing qualities of red and yellow pyjama shirts (Thailand’s political culture is riven by two parties popularly known as Red and Yellow Shirts). The commentary slips into effortless sarcasm:

Natee has proudly worn the red pyjama shirt several times since then, and his dream personality hasn’t altered at all. On the contrary, the shirt has encouraged him to become a man of conviction in his waking life. As to what those convictions were supposed to be, Natee wasn’t quite sure. But it was safe to say that a night shirt so principled wouldn’t drop a button so easily.

Since these stories were written, Bangkok’s political schizophrenia has lost its former air of apathy and innocence, but Yoon’s tone is quietly prescient about the eruption of violent irrationality a few years later. It’s a reminder how precious the subtlety of fiction is when set against the shrill certitudes of activism and reportage.

My favorite story here is “Something in the Air”. Its dialogues are written with hilariously archaic, bureaucratic formality, while delving into the disorientation of sexual and romantic hopes in the present century. After the couple’s love-making is interrupted, the young man suggests insolently to the woman that they resume in the open air, exposed to the furious elements. She agrees. They then notice that a dead body is lying on the roof nearby, crushed by the giant letters.

While waiting for the police to arrive, the woman sits quietly and describes her future, a happily married future in which her current lover will play no part whatsoever. He listens in melancholy astonishment until the couple are called to give their testimonies about the dead man. The officers then suspect that the couple themselves have done something scandalous – and so, stung by shame, the woman considers breaking off the relationship and setting in motion her own prophesy.

The Sad Part Was is unique in the contemporary literature of Bangkok – it doesn’t feature bar girls, white men, gangsters or scenes redolent of The Hangover Part II. Instead it reveals, sotto voce, the Thai voices that are swept up in their own city’s wild confusion and energy, and it does so obliquely, by a technique of partial revelation always susceptible to tenderness.

Lawrence Osborne is a British novelist living in Bangkok. His next book, “Beautiful Animals”, will be published by Hogarth in August

The Sad Part Was
Prabda Yoon
Tilted Axis Press, 192pp, £8.99

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder