The DNA of this is traceable to the thirties when middle class, Oxbridge educated film makers set out to document the lower social classes, in the process establishing what came to be known as the British documentary movement.
Depicting people is not the same as enabling them to have a voice, and the British film industry is dominated by the chattering middle classes. What underscores films such as this, or the risible Bullet Boy of 2004, is an appalled fascination the broadsheet reading, wine drinking chattering classes have towards those of the lower social orders. Alternately appalled, fascinated by and terrified of the underclass, watching a film like this and joining in the hype surrounding it allows us to bask in self satisfaction, feeling good about ourselves. We can take a peek into the murky twilight world of street prostitutes, small time criminals, wring our hands, then get back to our dinner parties.
The young girl is never developed. Why did she run away from home? Is it plausible she would not be picked up by the police? London s streets are bristling with CCTV cameras, the last time I checked there are teams of undercover, plain clothes officers devoted to rounding up kids bunking off school. Her personality is entirely unritten, we know, and care, nothing about her. Implausiblities run throughout this film. Like the stoners forced out of a flat at gunpoint...surely one of them might have called the police. A petty criminal would not be yelling his head off in a residential street, waving a shotgun around, bundling two girls into the boot of a car. Unless he wanted to be surrounded by armed police.
Other characters are cardboard clichés of the most tired kind. We have the slapper with the heart of gold...the designer suited gangster in his pole dancing club. Lets have a film about some real prostitutes. The paedophile here is completely unbelievable. He d be far more likely to groom a child in this situation, putting her at ease, not tying her up and terrifying her by cutting her clothes with a knife.
Its the sign of a poor film maker, bereft of any ability to utilise cinematic language, that he layers every scene with ponderous music, instructing us, at key moments, what to feel.
There's no cinema to this, it has the look of an episode of the old soap Brookside, with a lot of close ups and melodramatic, television type acting.
The fawning over this film and its director smacks to me of nepotism and the incestuous nature of film festivals. Just because a British film has appeared doesn't mean its any good. We deserve better than this.
Depicting people is not the same as enabling them to have a voice, and the British film industry is dominated by the chattering middle classes. What underscores films such as this, or the risible Bullet Boy of 2004, is an appalled fascination the broadsheet reading, wine drinking chattering classes have towards those of the lower social orders. Alternately appalled, fascinated by and terrified of the underclass, watching a film like this and joining in the hype surrounding it allows us to bask in self satisfaction, feeling good about ourselves. We can take a peek into the murky twilight world of street prostitutes, small time criminals, wring our hands, then get back to our dinner parties.
The young girl is never developed. Why did she run away from home? Is it plausible she would not be picked up by the police? London s streets are bristling with CCTV cameras, the last time I checked there are teams of undercover, plain clothes officers devoted to rounding up kids bunking off school. Her personality is entirely unritten, we know, and care, nothing about her. Implausiblities run throughout this film. Like the stoners forced out of a flat at gunpoint...surely one of them might have called the police. A petty criminal would not be yelling his head off in a residential street, waving a shotgun around, bundling two girls into the boot of a car. Unless he wanted to be surrounded by armed police.
Other characters are cardboard clichés of the most tired kind. We have the slapper with the heart of gold...the designer suited gangster in his pole dancing club. Lets have a film about some real prostitutes. The paedophile here is completely unbelievable. He d be far more likely to groom a child in this situation, putting her at ease, not tying her up and terrifying her by cutting her clothes with a knife.
Its the sign of a poor film maker, bereft of any ability to utilise cinematic language, that he layers every scene with ponderous music, instructing us, at key moments, what to feel.
There's no cinema to this, it has the look of an episode of the old soap Brookside, with a lot of close ups and melodramatic, television type acting.
The fawning over this film and its director smacks to me of nepotism and the incestuous nature of film festivals. Just because a British film has appeared doesn't mean its any good. We deserve better than this.