Dir: Gerard Johnson, UK, 2009, 71 mins
Cast: Peter Ferdinando, Ricky Grover, Kerryann White
Review by Dave Hall
If you're of the opinion that the only thing missing from the serial killer genre is a slice of social realism, then this is the film for you. Mike Leigh with body parts perhaps doesn't quite fit the case, but it's good shorthand for Johnson's feature debut, as council flats and crack dens provide the backdrop to the grisly goings-on. Grim, yes, but strangely not depressing.
Johnson seems to be suggesting that ghouls are addicts too, with his protagonist killing more to avoid loneliness and social inadequacy than out of some Hannibal Lecter-like superiority complex. There's no story as such; instead we see Tony (Ferdinando) wandering around inner city London, attempting and mostly failing to make connections in the mean streets around him: he is thrown out by a prostitute when he asks for a cuddle, blackmailed into working for nothing by a prospective employer, and accused of paedophilia by a knuckle-headed neighbour. His fantasy life is no more satisfying, consisting of battered old porn mags and videos of naff 80s action flicks ( Tango & Cash , anyone?). When a woman from the flat downstairs asks him to Sunday lunch, dialogue is drowned out by the sound of Tony's emotions overloading, so stunned is he to be shown a modicum of kindness.
Johnson perhaps over-does his character's terminal lack of appeal, kitting him out in oversize specs, Freddie Mercury moustache and war criminal's haircut. But Ferdinando, who is superb throughout, manages to convey Tony's warped neediness, even as he's slicing up some unfortunate's innards in the sink, or offering the decomposing corpse he wakes up to of a morning an invigorating cuppa. The dark humour doesn't always sit well with the forensic attention to the mechanics of body disposal, or indeed the semi-political subtext: no one notices that crackheads are disappearing from the streets (though the knocking off of a TV licence inspector is surely tongue in cheek). And just to spice up the eclectic mix of ingredients, fans of 80s urban miserabilist band The The might be astonished to find them credited with the film's soundtrack.
There are scenes when the various elements do click, and some that will stay with you after the credits roll: check out Tony's chilling into-the-mirror monologue. In the end, though, Tony isn't quite well-developed enough, and seems stuck in a limbo between extended short and truncated feature. It doesn't outstay its welcome, but neither does it have the structure or the dramatic momentum to grip as a sustained piece of storytelling. You'll need a strong stomach for some of it, too.
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