Touching despite itself
12 October 2001
The case against this movie hardly needs to be restated. Clunking, crass, monotonously unfunny, it's the sort of film that gives sexism a bad name.

And yet, for those who grew up in England in the early 70s, Confessions of A Window Cleaner is horribly evocative. The endless shots of tacky, dismal streets; the unwelcoming, tawdry interiors; the overwhelming sense of an exhausted gene pool; yep, that's what it was like. The film has some of the impact (though none of the accomplishment) of the photographs of Tony Ray-Jones, and promotes a similar melancholy.

Then there's Robin Askwith, who despite the various old troupers is the best thing in the movie. Granted, he wasn't everyone's idea of a sex god, and here he's at the mercy of a dire screenplay, but he gives it everything he's got. Looking and acting younger than his years, and with a cocky animality that no amount of boxy denim can mask, he sums up one particular breed of 70s boy, spunky, clueless, candid, vital, uncrushable. He looks great in his nude scenes, taut and doggy - there are moments of real beauty which belong in a better film. His sheer physical presence makes this awful picture almost worth watching.
13 out of 20 found this helpful. Was this review helpful? Sign in to vote.
Permalink

Recently Viewed