New Brighton Rock film a triumph for gender politics

When first time film Director Rowan Joffe decided to pluck the much celebrated novel Brighton Rock from its 1937 setting and relocate it in the swinging 60s, he should have known he’d be in for some ear bashing.

Released this week, Brighton Rock, a film set in the hipper and more recognisable Brighton of 1964, has been viewed as sacrilegious by critics and movie lovers everywhere.

The original film, released in 1947 and starring a fresh faced Richard Attenborough, is a tense showcase of stiff lipped Britishness. It occupies the same place in our hearts as Morecambe and Wise or the shipping news, and we protect it just as fiercely.

Swooping in and tampering with our national heritage, how can the new Brighton Rock possibly justify itself? Aside for the historical relocation, the most obvious departure from the original film is Joffe’s portrayal of the film’s heroine, Rose.

In the 1947 film, the naive and romantically deluded Rose is little more than a pathetic, featureless sap. The Director John Boulting is clearly uninterested in her plight.

When Rose stumbles upon incriminating evidence that could  send Pinky, the story’s boy-villain to the gallows, he marries her to prevent her from testifying against him.

So Pinky courts Rose out of self-preservation, the threat of the noose hanging ever present round his neck. But in the original film, we would struggle to raise even a shrug of pity for Rose who is devoted to Pinky despite his blatant sadism.

So why does Rose stick to her man with the dogged persistence of processed cheese? Well, she’s a woman, and a pretty dumb one at that. Case closed.

The Rose of Graham Greene novel is also vulnerable and submissive. But she is deeply reflective, wilful and fiercely passionate about her love for Pinky and the world view which predicates this love.

Rose is a Catholic and believes in human integrity through suffering. She is a pawn in Pinky’s game but, intent on her martyrdom,  is also autonomous in her own destiny.

Andrea Riseborough’s subtle but bristling performance reunites Rose with the depth and passion that is fundamental to the character as she was created by Graham Greene. Rose’s passion burns with a force that parallels Pinky’s violent, ruthless ambition.

Although Joffe’s film is inferior on other counts, it surpasses its predecessor in its ability to harness Rose’s power. And in this respect he finds justification for daring to remake Brighton Rock and dancing on the hallowed ground of classic British cinema.

One scene from the book that doesn’t find its way into the original film sees Rose in the suffocating despair of her own home. In Joffe’s film this scene gives us crucial insight into Rose’s reality.

She hurries around after her father, pretending  not to hear as he and Pinky haggle over her like a second hand washing machine.  Eventually the father agrees to sell her for £150. “What’s in it for you?” asks Pinky, of their impending nuptials. “A life”, she replies.

Why do people stay with partners who abuse them? For the lucky ones, it’s a question which perplexes us and sometimes challenges the sympathy we feel for victims of domestic violence.

But in her skilled and sensitive performance, Andrea Riseborough gives integrity to a person who would otherwise be dismissed as stupid and weak. This film bears out the critique of traditional gender roles and romantic idealism that rumbles beneath the surface of the novel.

We can learn much about the role of women in post war Britain from the original movie. The misogyny of classic films is routinely ignored by critics who see them as simply products of their time. But that misses the point. By treating Rose as a tiresome drip, the original Director robbed the film of a dramatic dimension that enriched the novel.

It may be pretty far down the list of concerns for feminists, but this film is worse off for failing to appreciate the dramatic impetus which a fully fleshed out Rose would have provided. Ignoring the depth and vibrancy of female characters will inevitably result in blander movies. This should be cause for concern to all film lovers, even those otherwise disinterested in gender politics.

Perhaps women have unearthed a new selling point for otherwise disinterested audiences to fly the flag for feminism? Okay, so equality as a building block of democratic society, but never mind all that. Just think what freeing our cultural industries from the plague of sexism could do for audience enjoyment?!

Let’s have a look at how a couple of film well-loved might look, minus the misogyny. A vast improvement, I’m sure you’ll agree:

Goldfinger

True to Ian Fleming’s book, Pussy Galore is a lesbian. Come the pivotal seduction scene, and despite much eyebrow wiggling and hairy chest exposure from Bond, Pussy is not budging.  Even if she didn’t bat for the other team she explains, her knickers would be staying firmly on. Girls talk she tells him. And the Belgian Heiress from down the road says he has the worst case of genital herpes she’s ever seen. Not even a condom made of vulcanised rubber and would persuade her to get on that. James breaks down and, in a rare moment of emotional intensity, confesses his chronic womanising is down to an emotionally distant mother. High from toppling the Mexican drug-Lord, Pussy has a sudden moment of clarity: Deciding she’s been the victim of school-boy sniggering for too long, she vows to change her name back to Theresa Tickle. Tess for short. End credits roll.

Pretty Woman

When Richard Gere, our knight in shining armour meets Vivienne, the chirpiest prostitute on the block, he knows he’s found his Cinderella. She susses out pretty fast that he digs the whole ‘plucky exterior masking vulnerability’ thing (which man doesn’t?) and hams it up to the max. But when you’ve had one Pygmalion-fixated fat cat, you’ve had them all and Vivienne is soon exhausted by the charade. Can she really sit through another stuffy eight-course business dinner, apparently enraptured with awe and overcome with girlish peels of glee? Pretending to have the naivety of an animated baby rabbit is no small feat when you’ve been turning tricks since you were 13. “I cannot be your Cinderella”, she blurts out, half way through another tedious night at the opera. “And for the record”, she points out, “if there is a scene in the fairytale where Prince Charming pays Cinders to fellate him in front of re-runs of I Love Lucy, I must have missed it”. End credits roll.