Double Bill: Rocky vs. Taxi Driver

Double Bill: Rocky vs. Taxi Driver

Despite not being born when it happened, I'm a big fan of 70s cinema. Cast your eye over the list of Best Picture nominees alone and many of them would be high up on lists of best films of all time. Take 1975 as an example: Jaws, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Dog Day Afternoon. I'm afraid that American Hustle and Gravity simply lack the same 'timeless' quality their 70s counterparts seemed to have in abundance. Will some self-righteous keyboard warrior such as myself be writing about them in 40 years' time? I doubt it. For a start, I'll likely be eating my meals through a straw and shouting at the pigeons by then...

But depending on your point of view, there was a grave injustice committed in 1976, where the Oscar committee saw fit to give the statue to Rocky (John G. Avildsen) ahead of Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese). Now don't get me wrong, both are fine films in their own way, and would make a brilliant double bill, but I think Taxi Driver is the better film, but only just. I'm going to have a look at both of them and try to decide who wins the fight between Taxi Driver's Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) and Rocky's Balboa (Sylvester Stallone).

Round 1 – Philadelphia vs. New York

Both films have a strong sense of place, integral to the story. Balboa's soul is being eroded by his job collecting debts for local mafia, such is the level of poverty in his town; something for him to escape from but simultaneously stay loyal to. Bickle's character is driven (pun intended) by his disgust for his city. New York is depicted as an endless, neon urban sprawl, full of sleaze and dirt. Balboa's Philly is a working class dead end from which he escapes, through sheer bloody hard work; the American Dream punched into reality. Bickle's New York is more of a nightmare, both literal and figurative. He wants change, he wants improvement; but it's not himself that he tries to change or improve; it's the streets.

Round 2 – Yo Adrian, You Talkin' To Me?

Rocky Balboa is so often defined by his relationship with Talia Shire's Adrian Pennino, always there to worry about him when he's having his ass handed to him, that it's easy to forget how they got started. A huge part of Rocky's charm comes from how clumsy and oafish Stallone makes him. He's a boxed and a mob enforcer but he's totally unthreatening. Seeing the big lug dance circles round the shy Adrian, nothing to say but never shutting up, is disarming and makes us love and root for him. He's a hero with a heart but before Adrian comes along, it's empty.

Bickle on the other hand is a masculine crisis personified. Cocooned in his cab, the wounded and disturbed Vietnam vet has nothing in his life but his impulse to lash out at society and in doing so change it for the better; his 'real rain to wash the scum from the streets' takes the form of vigilante violence. Any why? We aren't really told but presumably it's because he can't think of anything else to do. His abortive relationship with Cybill Shepherd's Betsy is uncomfortable to watch and highlights how isolated he is from the world. He needs a cause, something to live for and to fight for but can find nobody who wants his help. If only he'd taken up boxing...

Round 3 – Livin' In America...

While parts of Taxi Driver revolve around a political campaign, which Bickle volunteers for and then attempts to violently end, there's more going on here; there are differing ideological viewpoints. Rocky is a more traditional American, almost conservative film; it presents the idea that anyone, literally anyone, can succeed at anything, literally anything, if they try hard enough and believe. This is the standard excuse wheeled out to justify the inequities of capitalism time and time again: work hard enough and you'll be rich. Rocky works hard enough and he's fighting the champ (an implausible amount of luck aside). The film is smart enough not to give you the pay off you want when Apollo wins the fight (and I think this has contributed to the film's longevity; had he won, it would not have been as powerful), but ultimately Rocky Balboa personifies the working class Joe, for whom the American Dream is always just around that next corner...

Paul Schrader wrote a much more cynical view of the world in Taxi Driver. While the vigilante aspects therein could be read as conservative, that social problems can only be dealt with through violence, I would argue that it presents a more anarchic, almost nihilistic worldview. Where are the authority figures in Taxi Driver? Peter Boyle's older, wiser cabbie has no answers, Senator Palantine offers nothing for Travis to cling to, even Betsy has little to say. The wisest character in the film is arguably Jodie Foster's teenage prostitute. It also takes a very dim view of traditional relationships, highlighting how ill-equipped men are for them and how infantile they can be about sex. Bickle's spectacular lack of connection with Betsy, coupled with his infamous choice of first date venue results in rejection and anger. This episode says more about men than it does women; Betsy is a smart, sophisticated and ambitious woman, while Bickle is little more than a caged animal, sharpening his claws on the bars. By contrast, in Rocky the relationship with Adrian is sweet and charming, very much the emotional centrepiece of the film.

Round 4 – The Italian Stallion vs. God's Lonely Man

Where Rocky shows the importance of ambition, Taxi Driver highlights the lack of belonging and the destructive power of isolation; not exactly an endorsement of American rugged individualism. Neither protagonist really knows what else to do with their lives. Balboa punches folks and takes a beating, Bickle builds inexorably to a violent confrontation (unsanctioned by a boxing commission...). Despite the differences, their stories make for two of the greatest films made in a decade of great films. One, an American classic in which a man fights against the odds and triumphs (but doesn't win); the other, a more European-influenced film, non-narrative and meandering where a man tries to change the world and ends up changing absolutely nothing. He saves the girl but everything else is doomed.

Do yourself a favour and watch these two together. You can decide for yourself who deserved the Oscar (I'm deciding against both and giving it to Network) but I would recommend watching Taxi Driver first and Rocky second; you'll have a much happier ending!

Gig review - The Wildhearts, Newcastle Academy, 19/09/15

The Wildhearts – 20 PHUQ-ing years

Newcastle Academy, 19/09/15

Warning! This review contains hyperbole, exaggeration and bias!

“The whole world is wild at heart and weird on top.” This line from David Lynch's Wild At Heart (one of his more conventional films, as it happens) inspired the name of England's most talented and unfortunately self destructive band. This will be the third review of one of their shows that I've done in as many years, but they keep coming back and I keep going to see them. So you can probably expect more of these, because The Wildhearts are as good as they ever were. Perhaps better, even because there's not so much intra-band tension and messing about with drugs.

Tonight they are celebrating the 20-year anniversary of their brilliant 2^nd album PHUQ (pronounced 'fuck' and not 'fuck you') by playing the whole thing from start to finish. Having bought the album on the day it came out, this makes me feel old but filled with a nice nostalgia at the same time. Many a formative year was spent in the company of these songs and hearing them belted out tonight is something of a trip.

The album is probably the apex of the fun-while-it-lasted 'Britrock' scene, which was a more entertaining antidote to dullards like Blur, Pulp and Oasis; dubbed Britpop by the same lazy journalists who had lumped The Wildhearts in with Terrorvision, Therapy?, The Almighty et al. Ginger Wildheart was, and remains to this day the best songwriter in the country, as proved by recent crowdfunded albums Albion and 100%. That he isn't regularly playing Wembley stadium is a bigger national disgrace than the ongoing privatization of the NHS. Probably.

There's an early curfew because kids want to come to the Academy's club night and dance to You Me At Six and Pvris, so things kick off horribly early. There's probably a bit of hubris at work with the choice of support but given the quality of the band it's forgiveable. Ginger's own Hey!Hello! open the show, as they did last time, and their brand of cheeky Cheap Trick-like pop rock goes down well. Hampered by a muddy sound that drowns out one of the guitars, it's still possible to make out that the impressive voice of new singer Hollis Mahady is much better than that of the ousted Victoria Liedtke. She's quite a performer too, energetic and earnest throughout as they mix a couple of new tracks in with 'Lock For Rock', 'The Thrill Of It All' and the infectious 'Swimwear'.

Next up is Baby Chaos, who I vaguely remember seeing open for...someone in the late 1990s. A brief discussion with friends yields no further answers as they came out with exactly the same thing. What I vaguely remember of them was completely wrong; I expected a fairly identikit pop-punk band with multi-part harmonies and yawn... What they actually do is aggressive, grungy dark rock, all angular riffs and abrasive guitars. Heavy but melodic and a good chorus or two to boot. Singer Chris Gordon has a fine voice for this type of thing and gives a heartfelt and passionate performance. I really hope I'm not the only new fan they've made tonight.

Ginger walks onstage looking every bit the rock star but a bigger cheer goes up for lead guitarist CJ, looking exactly as he did back in 1995 (paying the same Jackson Pollock-styled graffiti guitar, too). Opening as they do with what most bands could only dream of being their best song, 'I Wanna Go Where The People Go', any sound gremlins are immediately banished and it's game on. Playing an album in sequence naturally makes the set predictable in a way, but with tonight there's something comforting in knowing that a song as good as 'Just In Lust' or 'Caprice' is coming next.

Ginger is in good form tonight, reminiscing that a record company prevented PHUQ from being a double album before triumphantly stating “here we are 20 years later...”. We get a simple “Try this one on for size” before they kick into the monstrous riff that drives 'Naivety Play'. A glorious 'In Lily's Garden' and a thumping 'Getting It' ends the main set before the whole crowd cajole them back on by singing a horrifically off-key 'Don't Worry 'Bout Me'.

Now famous for their extensive encores, they are generous tonight, giving us: 'TV Tan', 'The Jackson Whites', 'Someone That Won't Let Me Go', 'Geordie In Wonderland' (my vote for the new National Anthem once Corbyn gets in and bans the queen), 'Weekend (5 Long Days)', 'Stormy In The North, Karma In The South', 'Turning American' and finally the perfect meld of riffs and melody that is 'Love U Til I Don't'. Showing my age and increasingly diminished tolerance for alcohol, I'm absolutely drained but elated. I kind of hope they don't do an Endless Nameless tour as that album is a bloody mess whichever way you cut it, but if they do, I'll be there and I'll still have a great time.

It's a night full of nostalgia for me and the sad thing is that it really shouldn't be. Despite the fact that the most recent song they played was over 6 years old, they're still the most exciting band in the country; more people should know this. So with that in mind, Biffy Clyro, Muse, Royal Blood, Marmozets, Lower Than Atlantis, Mallory Knox and You Me At bloody Six: the gauntlet is thrown; to be the best you've got to beat the best and you guys aren't even playing the same sport, never mind coming close to winning.

You know, come to think of it, my opening statement was an outright lie.

Gig review: Random Hand, Think Tank Newcastle, 10/09/15

Random Hand, the final tour

Think Tank, Newcastle, 10/09/15

Some years back I wandered into Trillians on one of those Friday nights where they put bands on that you'd never heard of and didn't charge an entry fee. Furthermore, it wasn't a tribute band or some bullshit glam rock copyists. Four young men from Yorkshire took to the stage and played a short but memorable set, winning over several new fans in the process, myself included. Since then I've seen Random Hand more times than I can remember, probably more times than any other band (including my beloved Therapy?) and have never, ever been disappointed by them. Often playing free shows, presumably meaning they didn't get paid much if anything, Random Hand never phoned it in, never seemed tired or jaded and never gave less than 100%. And that, my friends, is something to be admired.

Three albums later (with a crowd-funded fourth on the way), they have sadly decided to call it a day (for a while at least) and were hitting the road for one last time. The wife, also a fan, was coming along for the craic and the vodka. Mostly the vodka. This was going to be a bittersweet night, but was nailed on to be a cracking gig, too.

I've mentioned in previous reviews that I'm not really a 'punk' fan per se. Random Hand are kind of a ska band, trombone and all, but one which peppers their songs with big bouncy riffs, the occasional rap, infectious righteous anger, and a strong social conscience in their lyrics (Rage Against The Skachine, anyone? Skastem Of A Down, anyone? Ok, I'll stop). It'll be sad to know they're not around anymore, screaming in the face of racism and narrow-mindedness and being really good fun while doing it.

There was a nice atmosphere when we arrived at Think Tank, a lot of good will and positivity about the show, as well there should be. One of Newcastle's newer venues, I'd never been here before but it has a good vibe; managed by Steve from Trillians, it's well looked after with good staff, and the walls are a barrage of pop culture images.

We're there for a matter of minutes before opening band In Evil Hour hit the stage. Not being a massive punk fan, I'm a little stuck for comparisons (a touch of Bad Religion or Misfits at times, perhaps) but was really quite taken with them. Strong songs and big choruses, topped off by singer Alice's fine voice. One of those rough but melodic voices which sounded kind of effortless throughout, as if she easily had a few more gears to go up into. Intense but smiling throughout, she had abundant stage presence and charisma to go with the vocals. The band were good and full of energy but with a singer performing like that, the sky's the limit for them.

Random Hand arrive to a warm welcome, the kind you'd give a friend rather than a band. A couple a line up changes since I first saw them, plus several years of honing their skills on the road, this is the tightest and best-sounding Random Hand I've heard. Now armed with a more than respectable back catalogue, which allows them to toss out great tunes like 'Tales Of Intervention', 'I, Human', 'Roots In The Crowd', 'For Roni' and 'Bones' without even touching their brilliant first album, Change Of Plan. The audience lap it up, with a good portion of the crowd indulging in a good natured mosh and smiles all round elsewhere.

When they do play older stuff, it's with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you forget that they've played the songs literally hundreds of times in only a few years. 'Anthropology', 'Mr Bib Wakes Up' and their signature tune 'Play Some Ska' are thrown out, mixed with a new song which sparks a circle pit which fizzles out before the first chorus. Bloody amateurs... One of the things which makes Random Hand such an infectious live band is singer Robin Leitch's stage banter, which is more often then not hilarious. Maybe it's a Yorkshire thing but the only other singer to have made me laugh so much is Nick Holmes from Paradise Lost (no, really). Leitch's comedy gems tonight included a confession that he was 'touching cloth' throughout the show, an argument with a poster featuring Chunk from The Goonies, and an elaborate high-five ritual with an inebriated fan. It's this kind of good natured playfulness, easy charisma and humility that make Random Hand a band you want to see more of.

Leitch's final slice of stand-up revolves around a debate over whether the band should bugger off and come back for an encore. They're not really that kind of band, but surely nobody would begrudge them one last hurrah. Remaining resolutely fun to the end, they decide instead to face the back of the stage for a few seconds while we cheer them back 'on'. A swift one-two of an encore is played, featuring a rendition of 'Scum Triumphant' which lives up of half of its name, and then it's over. They leave, we all cheer and file out, knowing that this was the end of something special.

If I have a gripe, it's that I wanted to hear more from Change Of Plan but I can't really begrudge them playing the songs they're most proud of on their last tour; the set was great and I really hope they enjoyed it as much as I did. Planning this review in my head, I decided I was going to frame it with a sloppy device about the injustice that bands like Mumford And Sons and Coldplay, who seem to have decided against being any fun at all, sell millions of records and bands like this are largely ignored. I jettisoned the device in favour of some brief reminiscing about the great nights I've spent in the company of this band and I'm pleased I did; they deserve it. Cheers lads. All the best!

Hollywood's Black Mirror: Superstars and Self Loathing

Hollywood has issues. Serious self esteem issues. While to you and I it is an unrelenting dream factory, making children happy, blowing stuff up and keeping Michael Bay inexplicably employed, below the surface lies something much more sinister. Once the layers of stage make up are removed, you can find a confused, self-loathing monster at once ashamed of what it does to people but also desperate for the public's attention. Yes, when a director dares to shine the stage lights back at the industry, you can find some pretty damning, often downright savage portraits. You just have to know where to look. So here's where to look:

Singin' In The Rain (1952, Stanley Donen/Gene Kelly)

One of the greatest, most heartwarming, magical and just downright superb films ever made, elements of Singin' are not particularly complementary about tinseltown. Set around the birth of sound in films (the mid-1920s, film history fans), it deals with the cruel reality facing many stars of the silent era at the dawn of the talkie. This is embodied in Jean Hagen's Lina Lamont; a great face for silent pictures but possessed of a caricature 'Noo Yawk' screech in her voice, making her universally unsuited to sound. The film depicts how the industry chews up and spits out its stars, particularly the female ones. This is of course buried beneath one of Hollywood's sweetest romances between Kelly's Don Lockwood and new 'talent' Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds). The moral of the story: men can survive seismic shifts in the industry but women are more expendable. And we see this as a feelgood film? Tsk tsk.

The Artist (2011, Michel Hazanavicius)

Covering similar ground as Singin' but reversing the gender roles (only appropriate, given the modern day production), The Artist was a worthy Oscar winner. It's a simple, elegant tale in which Jean Dujardin's titular silent movie star finds himself unwanted and cast aside by an industry eager for the next big thing. Stuck in his ways, he needs the guidance of Berenice Bejo's irrepressible Peppy Miller to overcome the transition to talkies. The ease with which he is almost driven to suicide when the industry he helped create decided it didn't want him any longer is a subtly scathing swipe at the studios.

What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? (1962, Robert Aldrich)

Never one to shy from the darker side , Robert Aldrich made brutal war movie The Dirty Dozen and nihilistic noir Kiss Me Deadly (often cited as the film that ended the noir cycle). Baby Jane is a creepy, often frightening tale of two sisters: one a former child star turned alcoholic nobody (Bette Davis' embittered 'Baby' Jane) and the other a successful but now crippled Hollywood actress (Joan Crawford's desperate victim, Blanche). Both having been churned up and spat out by the studio system, Jane is driven to madness by jealousy of Blanche's success, and the fact that nobody wants to see her any more. The final scene of Jane, on the verge of arrest for murder but thrilled at the attention she's getting for her insane dancing, is a sad indictment of the industry's ability to build and break in equal measure.

That the two stars reportedly despised each other in real life not only festered some brilliant performances, it further reinforces just what being a movie star can do to a person.

Sunset Boulevard (1950, Billy Wilder)

Arguably the best film by one of Classical Hollywood's greatest directors (for me, up there with Hitchcock, John Ford, Howard Hawks) is perversely the one where he not only bit the hand that fed but took out a massive chunk and spat it on the ground. Covering similar thematic ground as Baby Jane, this is a dark, tragic tale of faded silent era star Norma Desmond (in a too-good-at-this-for-it-not-to-be-real Gloria Swanson). Driven so insane by her fall from fame, she engineers a fantasy world in which her comeback is just around the corner and where Hollywood hasn't forgotten about her.

Drawn into this web of madness is William Holden's Joe, and through his eyes we see indignity after indignity unfold: the studio only wants her for her car; her devoted manservant was actually her first husband; she believes the cameras that greet her arrest are actually filming her big screen comeback. This is a film whose depiction of Hollywood stardom is so dark and bleak that it's narrated by a dead guy.

Mulholland Drive (2001, David Lynch)

Another film where a character's failures in Hollywood lead to psychological breakdown (maybe). Where broken dreams of stardom cause the character's insane dreams, which actually compromise the bulk of the film (possibly...). Look, I have no idea what this film is about but the more 'narrative' aspects of it suggest that it's a pretty nasty critique on the Hollywood dream and, particularly when viewed alongside Lynch's INLAND EMPIRE, how women are manipulated in the industry.

If you fancy trying to work out what this brilliant but baffling film is all about, the Wikipedia page has some brilliant information to chew on.

Maps To The Stars (2014, David Cronenberg)

No real surprises that this one slipped under the radar with minimal advertising, it sees the industry's other weird David not so much biting the hand that feeds but cutting it off and using it to wipe his backside. Satirical to the point where you struggle to believe the (universally brilliant) actors aren't as horrible as they appear. This features Robert Pattinson sending up his own career and those of many of his peers, and a fearless, peerless performance from Julianne Moore, whose desperate has-been is simply vile but in the hands of Moore, somehow worthy of pathos. That the only likeable character in the film is Mia Wasikowska's psychologically unstable, matricidal burn victim is telling: this is behind the scenes of both young fame and fading glory, and Cronenberg is telling us that it's rotten to the core. Don't let this put you off, by the way; the film is brilliant.

The Player (1992, Robert Altman)

In my opinion the most satirical film on the list and the one which takes the dimmest view of Hollywood is one of Robert Altman's many masterpieces. Tim Robbins' producer, desperate to stay ahead of the game, murders an aspiring screenwriter. Desperation for continued success drives a man to kill and then give in to a blackmailer in return for his freedom. The entire film is a joke on the industry and the skeletons in its wardrobe department. My favourite example of Hollywood's corrupting influence appears in The Player: Richard E. Grant's determined screenwriter pitches a legal drama with no stars and a depressing ending, a project he is passionate about and will not compromise on. The ending of The Player shows the final scene of his film: Bruce Willis rescues Julia Roberts from the gas chamber (with a shotgun, naturally) and carries her away with a pithy one-liner. Richard E. Grant, ecstatic with the result, becomes another artist compromised by the Hollywood money machine. A wonderful film, with no moral and nothing good to say about the industry which produced it.

It's telling, I think, that some of the greatest artists working within the studio system have produced such savage attacks on the very industry that gave them their medium. Some might cite bitterness or envy but I would disagree. It takes a great mind to criticise and tear apart from within and a particular talent to create art while doing it.

The Green Cornetto: In Defence Of The World's End

Why Does Nobody Like The Green Cornetto?: In Defence of The World's End

It's always hard for the last film in a trilogy, even one as loose as the Simon Pegg-Edgar Wright 'Cornetto' series, to live up to the standard of a beloved first two. The Godfather 3 famously stuttered where the others shone, Spider-Man and X-Men third films were less fun and less coherent than their super predecessors. And The Matrix was becoming obsolete by the time Revolutions came round. Following the genre parody brilliance of Shaun Of The Dead (2004) and Hot Fuzz (2007), the creative triumvirate of Pegg (writer and star), Wright (writer and director) and Nick Frost (increasingly important star) were always going to find it hard to recreate the magic. But I argue that they did, and in doing so created a film which has richness and depth where the other two have light familiarity. Harder to love, but more rewarding for the effort.

Shaun is a lovingly crafted parody of zombie survival movies seen through the eyes of distinctly unheroic characters. It both uses and undermines a familiar formula beat-for-beat, adding a level of detail and directorial flair to set it apart from the endless 'spoof' cycles we're bombarded with. Fuzz did largely the same thing with the buddy cop movie. A sub-genre, the best examples of which include Lethal Weapon, 48 Hours, Bad Boys, are heroic, large scale action films normally set in Los Angeles or San Fancisco where a mismatched pair end up taking down some pretty serious criminals. The genius of Fuzz is that it takes that formula and transplants it to rural England, replacing the criminal mastermind with a tooled-up neighbourhood watch. The scale is epic but the size is actually tiny. Your expectations as a viewer are both undermined and met at the same time, the effect being that these films are a lot better than some of the films they parody.

And so to The World's End, arriving 9 years after Fuzz and on the back of Hollywood success for both Pegg and Wright, the weight of expectation is worth noting. If Shaun was a fluke (it wasn't), and Fuzz a calling card to the rest of the world (it was), then The World' End was coming from a paid whose talent was well known and the question of 'what will they do next?' was an unfair burden on the film.

Is The World's End another genre parody? Yes and no. It broadly uses the alien invasion imprint, the best examples being Invasion Of The Body Snatchers 1956 or 1978), V (1984), a splash of They Live (1988) with a dash of Village Of The Damned (1960). It's a recognised genre and one with enough tropes to make it rife for parody, however while the other two delved straight in, The World's End waits until well into he 2^nd act before exposing the 'little green men' (who are actually blue). Ultimately, the film is more about a pub crawl than an alien invasion and more about friendship and growing up than it is about survival. A brave move, in my opinion, to make your subtext bolder than your narrative.

It's also a break from the pattern of straight genre parodies because it uses and subverts your expectations from the other two films, not just of a genre. Pegg and Wright are too smart a writing team to simply re-hash jokes from the other two films (hence they avoided the obvious 'you've got blue on you' line) but the film is stuffed with references to the other two, both overt and sly. From Wright's pint-pull extreme close ups to the hedge-jump, the film is littered with nods, hat tips and winks to the audience: rural police officer with little to do but traffic offences; town taken over by a usurping force, personified by a former Bond actor; pub-based fight scenes; out of place 'statues'; the pub presented as the place to go to resolve problems; the 'blanks' are effectively zombies, defeated by impact from a blunt instrument; hero's idea for how to survive? Head for the pub; themes of the importance of friendship, particularly in the face of a world that wants you to conform. There is more to this than just a writing style, more than just a few nods in order to appear 'meta' and certainly more than just lazy writing. No, Pegg and Wright are using your expectations of them, playing with them and often having some fun at your expense. They should be applauded for this; it would have been too easy for them to make 'From Dusk Til Shaun', so they didn't do it.

Another brave move which pays dividends is the Simon Pegg character. Pegg is likeable and charismatic; he just is the loveable loser Shaun in Shaun, shifting it up a gear to play honourable supercop Nicholas Angel in Fuzz. Here, he plays Gary King, a man whose development is so arrested it might as well be one of Hot Fuzz's NWA members. While his childhood friends are all major successes, he has spent 20 years living in the shadow of an incomplete pub crawl. He's vulgar, a lair, takes drugs and is ultimately an irritant early on, requiring the brilliant supporting cast to anchor the film in some form of recognisable humanity (co-drinkers Frost, Martin Freeman, Paddy Considine and Eddie Marsan are all likeable and warm). In fact the film's first few minutes, a dazzling nostalgic montage, are arguably the weakest, such is the lack of identification we have with Gary 'fucking' King.

The film develops into an exploration of what is important to each character and ultimately all King wants in life is to complete the pub crawl which has eluded him for so long. We can't identify with him easily but what we can get behind is the pathos, which bleeds from him in an emotional final act where his vulnerability is revealed. It's a brave move to make your trump card an unlikeable character but Pegg nails it and the film is far better for it.

Finally, there are two scenes which set The World's End aside from the others in terms of pure emotional gut punch. Anyone with any experience of bullying will sympathise with Eddie Marsan's Peter Page character and his monologue in Pub No. 4, following an encounter with the former school bully. Ending with the line “he didn't even recognise me,” it gets me every time. It's a scene that would have seemed incongruous in either Shaun or Fuzz, but characters here are allowed room to breathe. In a film full of glib one-liners (“What the fuck does WTF mean?” being one of my favourites) and absurd slapstick, it's a moment of true human sympathy. Equally effective and affecting is the climactic moment where Gary King finally removes his coat to reveal his bandaged wrists; his line, “They told me what time to go to bed! Me! Gary King!” both explains his behaviour (he's an alcoholic) throughout the film and devastates Nick Frost's Andy and audience alike. It also neatly sums up the main theme: that it's ok to be a screw up in a world that wants you to toe the line and conform. Shaun and Fuzz work in similar territories but never do it this well, such is their dedication to formula.

So next time you're filling an evening with two British comedy classics, make room for the third and don't neglect The World's End. It may not have the instantly classic moments (kill Phil, pool cue smackdown, “Yarp”, that shootout) but it has zingers aplenty, a human heart and a brain to match the belly laughs. Cornetto, anyone?