Red Riding

Sifting his way through the ash-laden wreckage of a major fire in Northern England, a budding journalist lowers his pad and pen as he surveys the damaged area. Unrecognizable from the Irish Traveller camp it once was, the devastation has left entire families homeless as mothers attempt to protect their children from the worse of the debris which fall like snow all over West Yorkshire. The brilliant, up-and-coming journalist Eddie Dunford (Andrew Garfield) stops in his path and is particularly moved by the sight of a small girl- no older than 6- clutching her doll, her eyes glazed over her former home. 

This early scene in Red Riding: 1974 is one of the major catalysts for Eddie’s eventual transformation from objective observer to active participant and an effective introduction to the bleak, intense, modern world of ‘70s Yorkshire. 1974 is the first of three telemovie adaptations of British novelist David Pearce’s Red Riding Quartet (Nineteen Seventy-Four, Nineteen Seventy-Seven, Nineteen Eighty, Nineteen Eighty-Three), a dark, unsettling crime saga of flawed men, repellent monsters and moral- and physical- decay.

Pearce has been dubbed the “James Ellroy of the North” and his work shares with Ellroy’s LA Confidential a dark, angry socio-political charge and a sad recognition of the darkness that lurks within men’s hearts. Yet the Red Riding trilogy- written by Tony Grisoni (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Tideland) and directed by a trio of upcoming British filmmakers (Julian Jarrold, James Marsh and Anand Tucker)- is not simply a brilliant technical exercise in translating the American noir genre into the British landscape, but a powerful, textured portrait of a shattered town victimised by systematic corruption of its leaders and “protectors”. An intimate epic about a 20-year crime spree from the perspectives of its victims, the Channel Four series was acclaimed as “better than The Godfather” by The Guardian critic David Thompson and, whilst the series does not quite exceed the achievements of Francis Ford Coppola and Mario Puzo, Grisoni’s adaptation is still a towering accomplishment in the field of television- a worthy successor to the great British miniseries Edge of Darkness, House of Cards and State of Play in its effortless merging of intelligent, thrilling drama and beautifully-realised themes of revenge, corruption and injustice.

Although the series shares superb production values and a great cast with those seminal dramas, but what is particularly impressive is its intricate, overlapping, Dickensian-style of storytelling, especially the way in which minor events slowly develop greater significance and dramatic irony in later chapters whilst background characters slowly find themselves the centre of this cruel, inhumane corruption. Over the course of nearly a decade, characters that project an impression of goodwill can reveal simmering violence and white-hot rage underneath, whilst seeming bureaucrats and shambling losers can discover hitherto-unknown strengths and moral conviction after a lifetime of compromise and regret.

1974

In 1974, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus’ Garfield is Eddie, the hot-shot young reporter of the Yorkshire Post investigating the disappearances of girls in Northern Britain. At first, Eddie sees the case as a perfect stepping-stone in his career, but he is eventually moved by the grief of the case’s victims, especially a young mother (Rebecca Hall) whose own girl was kidnapped in an earlier case that bears remarkable similarity to the latest string of violent crimes against children.

Se in the aftermath of Watergate and Serpico, 1974- shot on hazy 16 mm- has a violent energy and scepticism in its portrayal of small-town politics, brimming with an vigorous fury at the ineptness and brutality of the West Yorkshire police’s ugly culture. Of the three directors in the trilogy, Jarrold has the most fun with the film’s period setting and the story’s stylised reference points: the story has hints of the grandeur and scope of paranoid thrillers Klute and All The President’s Men, but there is also an intimacy to the film’s bravado and style along the lines of low-budget British fare like Get Carter. TV-turned-film cinematographer Rob Hardy (Is Anybody There? ) fills the air with a smoky haze and impressionistic visual power, pushing the camera’s lens sometimes uncomfortably-close to Garfield’s face to suggest Eddie’s desires, pain and vulnerability against the wider corruption that engulfs this small town, in particular the wily machinations of the truly reptilian magnate John Dawson (Sean Bean).

The first part of a rich, sprawling trilogy, there is something riveting and compelling as well about Grisoni’s lived-in world. The screenwriter ensures that- despite the story’s intricate web of shocking corruption- there is an intimate gravity to the endeavour, basing his writing on convincing human behaviour and credible interactions. This is especially evident in Eddie’s first meeting with the mother of a missing girl Paula (Hall). He gets himself through her door and attempts to coerce her into an interview, but is- like many young men- shocked and a little frightened by her expression of genuine, painfully real emotion: “You come into my house like you are discussing the weather or some war in another f*%#ing country. You know this thing happened to me,” she admonishes. Unlike the dark, animalistic aggression of American crimes masters like Ellroy, Grisoni foregrounds the emotion of his characters in his writing, especially their pain and grief.

1974 also benefits from their casting of performers to build their characters with impressive detail and vigour. In particular, Garfield’s performance pulsates with energy and verve, infusing his character with infectious vitality and force. I did not much care for his arrogant, unctuous Californian student in Robert Redford’s Lions for Lambs, but he is fantastic here, carrying the trilogy’s opening with a mixture of cocksure, naïve charm and an even-more interesting vulnerability, his voice cracking at his most vulnerable and boyishly impulsive. Garfield is more than matched by a sterling supporting cast. Cast against-type, Bean is genuinely sinister as the ominous Dawson, effectively conveying unexpected aggression and violence beneath his stylish veneer. Hall is beautiful and strong as a more vulnerable fatale and Anthony Flanagan, Eddie Marsan and David Morrissey ooze class in smaller roles.

1980

The second film is tackled by first-timer James Marsh, who- like Kevin MacDonald (The Last King of Scotland, State of Play)- made his mark in the filmmaking world with an Oscar-winning documentary, Man on Wire (2008). It is to his credit that 1980 is the high point in the trilogy, deepening the sheer bravado of the first feature (replete with flashbacks, Super 8 video footage and documentary material) with deft restraint and unexpectedly artful composition and construction.

In 1980, Paddy Considine is Peter Hunter, a respected copper brought into West Yorkshire to investigate the local Police and their handling of the Ripper Murders. Finding himself at an impasse in his professional and private lives, the sensitive, well-educated Hunter is struggling to unearth the thuggish misconduct of his colleagues as his loyalty to his family is tested after his wife’s miscarriage.

Shot on 35 mm, 1980 is expertly filmed and edited, giving shape and specificity to the vaguely menacing ambiguity of the first film. Marsh’s background in documentary is evident in his graceful and elegant focusing on the fashioning elements of the period and story and expertly fashioning them into an increasingly paranoid saga of injustice and loneliness. Impressively, the film has greater weight and resonance than the first film, echoing the story’s increasing existential dread from the aggressive visual tics of the 1974, slowly ratcheting up the story’s internal tension and paranoid intensity with the subtlest hints of shadow and silhouette.

The work of an accomplished young filmmaker, 1980 demonstrates the importance of mood and performance in crafting a story. Marsh’s DOP Igor Martinovic has said that the filmmaker’s intention was to create two different, diametrically-opposed ideas: at first, the images’ strength and force initially conveys hunter’s professionalism and quiet confidence, but, slowly, these images convey the growing dread on the part of the detective. Unlike the sketchy direction of the first film (which is a subjective representation of Eddie’s feelings and fears), 1980 approaches its subjects with an forceful objectivity and restraint, conveying with gracefulness and restraint the futility of Hunter’s decency and morality in this ugly, thuggish world.

The promotional material screams that “Peter Hunter is Manchester’s answer to Jason Bourne” and, while there is a rebellion and rejection of this very corrupt world in his characterisation, Hunter is no superhero, but rather a vulnerable and very fallible human being. Over the 3 films, Grisoni’s script pushes his characters to their absolute breaking point and Considine beautifully essays Peter’s increasing frustration and despair with a beautifully restrained performance. Like Eddie in the first film, there is fire and desperation in his search for the truth, but Hunter has also formed self-discipline and wisdom as well, ensuring that his downfall is all the more painful and moving for his conviction and strength.

Grisoni has not only deepened and enriched the story with its second chapter, but also expanded the storytelling scope beyond the paranoid mindset of its hero, giving a fuller picture of the supporting characters and allowing them to grow in unexpected, very powerful ways. This is epitomised in the characterisation of Sean Harris’ thuggish, near-unhinged copper, Officer Bob Craven. A simple, dangerous thug in the first film, his promotion within the ranks of the police force signifies the hollowness and corruption of the Yorkshire Police with frightening plausibility, demonstrating the filmmakers desire to give even supporting characters depth and psychological credibility, slowly revealing a shocking portrait of corruption that has engulfed West Yorkshire.

1983

“To the North- where we do what we bloody want!”

It is a quote repeated over the course of the three films, and, in 1983, this chant is led by the hateful, vile police chief Bill Molloy (Warren Clarke, a long way from the greener pastures of Daziel and Pascoe) at the wedding of his daughter.

Except, this time the speech is made within earshot of one of the story’s main characters, conflicted copper Maurice Jacobson (Morrissey), who has lurked in the backdrop of the two previous films and is pushed to the fore of the drama by his devastated conscience.

Maurice is one of the three central characters of 1983, who are all searching for moral redemption. Shambling, browbeaten lawyer John Piggot (Mark Addy) takes on a case that links the previous Yorkshire murders with a new set of kidnappings, suggesting that the mentally-challenged young man (Daniel Mays) who was charged and convicted with the 1974 crimes may, in fact, be innocent. Thirdly, BJ (Robert Sheehan), the prostitute who offered elliptic clues to the identity of the killers in the first two films, returns to West Yorkshire after a stint in prison and may hold the secret to the real identity of the latest killings.

1983 was shot on digital video by the accomplished British director Anand Tucker (Hilary and Jackie, And When Did You Last See Your Father? ) and, whilst it lacks the urgency and energy of the first film and the precise, delicate elegance of the second, it exerts a deep emotional pull, concentrating on the lives pointlessly lost by the town’s corruption and injustice. It shows the consequences for men like Maurice who, at one point, could have easily been good, honourable officer, but his decision to compromise has infected his life and led him down a desolate, isolated path.

Slow, thoughtful and reflective, Tucker’s film is a real slow-burner, slowly linking these various strands into an incredibly powerful, honestly-earned finale. I do not want to give too much of the ending away, but the film culminates with two extraordinarily emotional sequences: one is a quiet sequence in which Maurice is finally made to realise the consequences of his inaction and the other is a crescendo of emotion, in which the three story threads finally converge, linked by BJ’s voiceover, Barrington Pehloung’s sweeping score and the editing’s cross-cutting between past and present. 

Morrissey, one of Britain’s finest actors, really comes into his own here. Making his name with a string of blistering performances in some of Britain’s best television dramas - including his Gordon Brown opposite Michael Sheen’s Tony Blair in the Peter Morgan scripted The Deal, his superb performance as the suave, flawed politician in State of Play and his philandering casino owner in the musical Blackpool- he is great here, registering conflict and pain with the subtlest twinge. Addy, too, is perfectly cast as the short-assed, unkempt lawyer who cannot resist the pull of his conscience. Probably the most wholly decent character in the series, Piggot represents nearly-selfless righteousness in a world of complete moral decay.

Grisoni’s Red Riding trilogy is a brilliant achievement for all involved. Red Riding may feature a heightened sense of storytelling and aggressively noir-like stylistic elements, but it is ultimately a very deep, moving parable about the evils of systematic corruption and a blindly unionist culture, showing how the system corrupts and oppresses all, from the victims of these horrific crimes to the parents, lovers, siblings and friends who somehow have to find a way to pick up the pieces of their now-shattered lives.