The Secret of the 44 Inch Chest
No, not another breast augmentation headline about Jordan, or the latest in the Pirates of the Caribbean series, but the latest gangster movie from the same writers as Dirty Beast, starring Ray Winstone.
Now this is the sort of film I know I need to see but am never sure I will like. I wasn’t sure for the first 40 minutes which I spent (I admit) flinching at the frequent use of certain derogative feminine expletives but, by the end of the initial tirade, this became part of the film’s context and I was laughing along with the ridiculous humour of the language and the action.
44 Inch Chest is part Beckett, part Berkoff in its composition – a staged piece of theatre on a screen. In a nod to its genre, Steven Berkoff even makes a guest appearance as a slightly murky gambling associate of the devilishly gay Meredith, played brilliantly by Ian McShane of Deadwood and Lovejoy fame.
The tale is Chaucerian in its simplicity. A cuckolded husband, a wanton wife and a young lover. The wife (Joanna Whalley) of lead character Colin (Ray Winstone), cheats on him. You are in anticipation of an escalating display of violence in the style of Dirty Beast and indeed the action leads you in that direction.
Colin found seemingly left for dead by his loyal mate, Archie (Tom Wilkinson) is beside himself with grief at his wife’s infidelity and the gang, dubiously drawn together by some clandestine and (we assume) criminal trade, decide on retribution. The capture of Loverboy, his trial by the gang and the denouement, is peppered with colourful dialogue straight out of Derek and Clive and helpless inactivity by way of Steptoe & Son and Til Death Do Us Part.
The action focuses around two main sets; the lead characters Ponda Rosa style suburban home and a scuzzy boarded up back street den with whisky stashed in a dirty kitchenette and an ominous wardrobe.
The resulting theatrical event is masterful. The whole relying on the exquisiteness of the individual performances. If it doesn’t win an over all Award, there must be some for individual performances which are hard to single out.
I particularly enjoyed the Steptoe-esque Peanut, (John Hurt) whose attempts at being ‘hard’ verge on pathos but who positions himself as a colourful raconteur when given to tell the story of Samson and Delilah, illustrated wonderfully with clips of the 1949 film featuring Hedy Lamarr & Victor Mature. A master stoke which contrasted with Technicolor clarity against the bleakness of the ugly squat in which they had imprisoned their unfortunate prey.
Loverboy never gets to cut off his hair or bring down the temple and to tell you more would spoil the pleasure of the tale as it unfolds. 44 Inch Chest is a dark parable of our times, a journey through man’s inhumanity to man, an updated, ‘big boy’ version of Lord of the Flies, with one beautiful woman thrown in for good measure. I loved it.
