Alan Clarke Collection

THE FLICKS: The British film industry has always faced an uphill battle. With not enough money or marquee stars to seriously compete with Hollywood, television seemed like a more natural outlet for a country rich in theatrical tradition (remember, some guy named Shakespeare lived there?). Hence the teleplay, which had its fair share of popularity in the States as well, offered a more intimate dialogue driven medium that produced a number of breakout writers, directors and actors, who went on to international big screen success. Director Alan Clarke was not among them. That is to say, Clarke’s most influential and notable work remained on the small screen where he developed a reputation as an “actor’s director,” taking chances with inexperienced, unknown thespians and pursuing common themes of social ills and injustice. The Alan Clarke Collection is a full-blown departure for Blue Underground, a company best known for its cult horror/sci-fi/fantasy DVD releases, perhaps signaling an interesting foray into Criterion Collection territory (but let’s not lose the cheesy stuff altogether, guys!). Scum, Made in Britain, and the BBC shorts The Firm and Elephant are austere explorations of British life; from the shocking brutality of youth Borstals (the UK juvenile prison system) to early 80’s skinhead angst, from repressed middle-class fury to IRA assassinations. Clarke approaches his topics with directorial sparseness. But it soon becomes obvious his unobtrusive camerawork is simply a means to an end. In the films of Alan Clarke, anti-style is his style. And the end result is all the more effective for it. Scum is the gem of the set and two versions are included. In 1977 the BBC commissioned production of the film for television and then promptly banned it for portraying the Borstal system in a bad light. Ray Winstone is the new kid on the block who brings along a bad boy rep for slugging an officer. After trying to go straight, he beats his way to the top of the Borstal feeding chain, becoming more of a criminal thug than he ever was on the outside. Following the prison genre template, Scum’s agenda is clear from the beginning as the screws create a climate of fear and physical punishment. The kids in the system have no choice but to respond in kind. Roy Minton’s script follows several key players, the most literate being Archer (David Threlfall in ’77, Mick Ford in ’79) whose education proves equally ineffective against “The Man.” No music, no flair, no punches pulled, Clarke does a remarkable job with his cast of teenage delinquents. The two versions are virtually identical in terms of script. The ’79 film is a step-up visually in terms of quality of image and Clarke adds a few exteriors that create a more complete Borstal environment. The rape scene and subsequent suicide are also more intense. But curiously, lead character Carlin’s homosexuality (albeit only a footnote in the BBC version) is dropped. Made in Britain deals with similar subject matter, but Clarke’s political position is almost completely reversed. The director introduces us to Trevor (Tim Roth in his acting debut), an “angry-at-the-world” skinhead who delights in shocking, pissing off, or beating on anyone who crosses his path. But perhaps in reaction to the controversy surrounding Scum, Clarke choose to side with the government on this one, casting Trevor’s counselors as well-meaning (if a bit naïve) blokes who only have the punk’s best interest in mind. Trouble is, Trevor has no interests. He’s a rebel without a cause just looking for an opportunity to rage against the machine. And Roth plays him with spittle-spewing rage, venomously matching the arguments presented for his rehabilitation with hateful contempt. As his future in the judicial system in laid out for him on a basement chalkboard, he almost revels in his eventual fate. Which makes his final comeuppance in a jail cell all that more pathetically predictable. Clarke may have switched sides, but his approach to filmmaking remained the same with Made in Britain; long steadicam shots than put the onus on the actor to create the character. And Roth delivers brilliantly despite the dialogue heavy profundity, which walks a delicate line between social commentary and after-school special. Of course, all the swearing helps, too. There’s even more Cockney slang in The Firm, with Gary Oldman as a 20-something real-estate agent who moonlights as a blade-wielding soccer hooligan, reveling in back-alley rumbles with rival teams of “gangsters.” His wife and child at home become nothing more than distractions as the violent “buzz” becomes all consuming. Only 60-minutes in length, this TV production shows us the opposite of the idealized sitcom existence. There is an ugliness festering in this home that Clarke unflinchingly brings to the surface. His documentary style feels like a one-take version of a reality show gone mad. And Oldman runs the gamut from charming family man to out-of-control sociopath. Elephant is Clarke’s collaboration with producer Danny Boyle in a more experimental comment on the civilian casualties from IRA violence. The camera follows one individual after another for 30-minutes as 16 murders are committed with virtually no directorial embellishment (which is, of course, the most dramatic embellishment of all). There’s no story and the message can become rather tedious. But there’s a frightening simplicity to the killings staged in such ordinary locations (in the park, at a gas station, etc.) that has a power a more typical narrative story would not. Finally Director: Alan Clarke is a 70-minute recollection of the man’s accomplishments in the words of his most frequent collaborators. From his neophyte work in the theater to his later challenging work in television, if you’re looking for the man behind the collection this is the place to start. Since most American’s will have no idea who Alan Clarke is, let alone why he deserves his own box set (I know I sure didn’t), this might be the disc to watch first. Spoilers are minimal. THE FEATURES: You want ‘em? You got ‘em. Scum (BBC Version) contains commentary with star Phil Daniels and David Threlfall, with additional comments from Ray Winstone on selected scenes. Scum (Theatrical Version) has the full track from Winstone, along with interviews from creative contributors. There’s even room for poster, still galleries and a theatrical trailer. Made in Britain has a full commentary from Tim Roth and an additional track from writer David Leland and producer Margaret Matheson. A poster/still gallery and very brief archive interview with Roth is also included. The Firm is limited to a still gallery while Elephant features a lively track from Danny Boyle (who explains the 16 murders were lifted from actual police records) and another short piece entitled Memories of Elephant with interviews from Oldman and others. An Alan Clarke bio completes the package on the final disc. FINAL SCORE: At their best the films in the Alan Clarke Collection are challenging, social-minded, performance pieces. At their worst: adjectives like “talky,” “stagey,” and very, very British come to mind. There’s no denying that the issues Clarke takes on are mostly provincial on the surface and some of the accents are thick enough to require subtitles. Scum is the most instantly accessible of the bunch and communicates a timeless sense of lost innocence. The subsequent films are harder to recommend for all tastes. But then again, so is Lucio Fulci. Even so, the Blue Underground faithful might be taken aback at this one. But I applaud the company’s courage to broaden everyone’s horizons a bit, even their own DVD catalog.