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The Crying Game



cast :

Stephen Rea, Jaye Davidson, Forest Whitaker, Miranda Richardson, Jim Broadbent, Ralph Brown

crew :

Directed by: Neil Jordan
Written by: Neil Jordan
Produced by: Stephen Woolley
DOP: Ian Wilson
Editor: Kant Pan
Music Score by: Anne Dudley

release date :

1992

If film could be considered to be the most potent method of capturing the essence of one’s cultural identity at a specific point in time, then it’s fair to say that the outlook many writers and critics have over that of contemporary Britain, is always one of somewhat cynicism. So, to quote the critic Martin McLoone, of who’s familiar words can represent them all, he goes on to explain that “definitions of Britishness (and even the historical or cultural legitimacy of the concept of Britain) are issues at the centre of a passionate and sometimes acrimonious national debate. The devolved political assemblies created in Belfast, Cardiff and Edinburgh have given this debate a new urgency” (McLoone, 2001, 186).


And so whilst it’s true that many of the films semi-made or produced in Britain since the mid 1980’s have viewed this identity crisis as the cause of a national decay (the suggestions of possible apocalyptic proportions as demonstrated by Mike Leigh’s ‘Naked’ (1993), or Alfonso Cuaron’s ‘Children of Men’ (2006) being just two of the most powerful for example), the brilliance of ‘The Crying Game’ (1992) then, is in how it, taking into account the political relationships between Britain and Ireland at the time, forms an argument not only against McLoone’s theory, but against many other existing ones concerning the entire spectrum of traditional British representations as a whole, that this ‘fragmentation’ we talk of, is not necessarily a bad thing.


The film appropriately opens, as it will later close, with a deceptively simple love song, accompanying a romance from which ‘not all is what it seems’; in this case it is between an off duty black British soldier, Jodi (Forest Whitaker, delivering possibly the most convincing British accent by an American actor ever heard) and Miranda Richardson’s ‘local tart’, Jude, at a lakeside funfair.


Of course, their simple meeting is actually the set up for Jodi’s kidnapping at the hands of Jude’s collaborating IRA operatives; her aggressive leader Maguire (Adrian Dunbar), and his more sensitive gunman Fergus (Stephen Rea).


The proceeding first act then, is an extraordinary, ambiguous, and sometimes darkly comic observation of these characters various relationships to each other whilst they hold Jodi to ransom in an isolated cottage, declaring the freedom of one of their imprisoned colleagues at the hands of the British government.


What is already most remarkable is the representation of these operatives themselves, for whilst most of them could be seen as being unlikeable, they are still capable of a humane treatment of their prisoner that is at least deserving of empathy, they are all simply humans involved a fight for their own personal causes. Fergus however, of whom having accidentally revealed his face and therefore given the job of Jodi’s watchman, is immediately likeable, and the strange befriending the two undergo is built upon both their shared humours and compassions, a representation that is a far cry from the usual one of Britain’s most compassionless monster number one.


Also, on terms of a radical representation, especially in the wake of the early 1990’s, is that of black soldier Jodi, for as Jim Pines writes on British black representation, “the 1990’s has seen the emergence of a completely new cultural and political agenda in Britain, which has temporarily halted any radically new interventions in the area of black representation. This does not bode well for the immediate future” (Pines, 2001, 182). Contrary to this, however, not only is it unusual to see a black soldier become such a significant character in a British film, but Jodi is actually a wonderfully in-depth character, seemingly knowing far more about his situation than his captors do.


Even upon multiple viewings of the film it is still unclear as to the true intentions of Jodi; is his and Fergus’s developing friendship entirely genuine, or is he trying to find the groups weak spot as a means to seek escape? Also, before knowing anything about what might happen in the second half, the scenes could be read as homo erotic, but Fergus’s lust for Jude, and Jodi’s love for his London based wife Dil (Jaye Davidson), would otherwise establish them both as straight men. Also, Jodi’s love for cricket, a sport largely associated with the white upper classes, sets him up as a character who can redefine class as well as race, a facet of his transgressing personality that will gain relevance later on.


The tone of the film at this stage is still largely conversational, the aggressive tensions between the two men only arisen upon the mention of nationality or “people”. But Jodi and Fergus are both philosophical lost souls, and Fergus’s true sensitive and doubting side is unearthed by Jodi’s telling of the story of the scorpion and the frog, an existential message that both mankind’s killing and helping of one another is an intrinsic, inevitable part of human nature, a conversation that culminates in Fergus’s promise that if anything were to happen to Jodi, he would pay a visit of remorse to Dil.


‘The Crying Game’ then redefines another popular theory on British film of Brian McFarlane’s wherein he writes “another defining factor which spills over into British films is a preference for the character-driven over the plot driven” (McFarlane, 2001, 275). Insofar as these two terminologies are hard ones to define (surely one feeds off the other?), ‘The Crying Game’ now has us gripped by whatever ‘events’ may happen next, rather than what might be ‘said’, especially when Jodi’s kidnapping turns to chaos and Fergus escapes to London, the film, in relation to the more traditionally British talky styles of Mike Leigh or Ken Loach, has most certainly now become plot driven.


Now under the guise of Jimmy, and having finally met Dil in her hair salon, wherein she mistakes him for being Scottish (another comment on the confusions of Celtic identities) he begins to pursue her in the Metro nightclub where she sings, a place awash in neon light, cigarette smoke and bad singing; the film appears to have bent genre once again into the more Anglo side of the film noir.


Dil appears to be involved with other men, in particular the abusive Dave (Ralph Brown), but soon the attraction is growing between her and Fergus. Their relationship regrettably stands out as the only flaw in the film, since their endless talking in riddles and questions tends to become a little tiresome at times, never really evoking the emotional attachments it might require. Soon all this gets swept beneath the carpet once the film reveals its sensational plot twist, which turns all our preconceptions and theories of masculinity and sexuality on its head. Fergus too, is now called into question everything he knows about himself, about the reasons for his involvements with the IRA, and about culture itself; something that of course becomes problematic once it seems his associates have survived their incidents in Ireland and need him for a further operation.


Whilst ‘The Crying Game’ still manages to debunk the theories of McLoone, McFarlane, and Pine, as well as many other popular theories of identification even today, its open examination of sexuality conjuncts with the possibly more modernised thoughts of Claire Monk, of whose concerns with Britain’s transitions from the 1980’s to the 1990’s go on to explain that; “It is true that one face of Britain in the 1990’s was the acceptance of an increasingly wide spectrum of sexual identities and practices – in particular, it appeared that male gayness had gained mainstream acceptance as a lifestyle, or even a cluster of lifestyles” (Monk, 2000, 156).


With this in mind then, could it be that ‘The Crying Game’ is best looked at as one clever allegory for the conformism of the 1980’s, and its journey toward the more fractured, open mindedness of the 1990’s; a time and place wherein nationality, sexuality, race, and even individuality became just mere issues of loosely drawn outlines.


And so now that both those decades can be looked back upon in retrospect, awards have been handed out, and that ‘The Crying Game’s’ much parodied twist has now become engrained in the pop cultural consciousness, it is now easier to appreciate the true effect such themes actually had upon its unsuspecting audiences of 1992. This was a time when British tensions with the IRA were still very much prevalent, and after the film’s release was understandably greeted with much hostility due to a coinciding car bomb explosion in north London, ‘The Crying Game’ now emerges as a subtly satirical, and possibly dangerous treaty on the futility the IRA’s policies and ideals actually had in the grand existential scheme of things; it is a film about hope and redemption, about the optimism held in a future of endlessly questioned boundaries, and about how beyond our differences and beliefs, we are all still humans from which the goodness of our nature will prevail.


The relevance of these subjects to its time is why ‘The Crying Game’ is one of the most important and moving British films of all time.


Watch


Country: UK and Ireland Budget: £2,300,000 aprox. Length: 107mins


Bibliography:
McLoone, Martin, 2001, Internal Decolonisation? British Cinema and the Celtic Fringe, in Murphy, Robert (Ed), 2001,The British Cinema Book: 2nd Edition, London, BFI Publishing.
Pines, Jim, 2001, British Cinema and Black Representation, in Murphy, Robert (Ed), 2001, The British Cinema Book: 2nd Edition, London, BFI Publishing.
McFarlane, Brian, 2001, The More Things Change…British Cinema in the 90’s, in Murphy, Robert (Ed), 2001, The British Cinema Book: 2nd Edition, London, BFI Publishing.
Monk, Claire, 2000, Men in the 90’s, in Murphy, Robert (Ed), 2000, British Cinema of the 90’s, London, BFI Publishing.


Filmography:
'The Crying Game' , 1992, Neil Jordan, Palace Pictures
'Naked', 1993, Mike Leigh, Thin Man Films
'Children of Men', 2006, Alfonso Cuaron, Universal Pictures


Pub/2008


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