The late Alan Clarke's original 1988 version of The Firm was an allegory on the Thatcher regime dealing with the rise of football violence in the suburbs. The story concerned the activities of the ICC (Inner City Crew), a gang of West Ham supporters who engaged in pitched battles with their rival clubs' hooligan contingent.
I missed it the first time around and only caught up with it very recently on DVD and found it to be a dated, campy, theatrical affair that seemed more concerned with presenting a political parallel to the Iron Lady's tyranny than properly addressing that era's (equally troubling) violence on the terraces. At the very least though, it did have a point and a purpose, both of which must have run for the hills when the 'genius' that is Nick Love (the non-thinking man's Guy Ritchie) came a-knocking at this particular property's door for a Noughties 'reimagining'.
With an impressive lack of insight/understanding for the source material, Mockney-boy Love launches his audience head first into an ineptly staged 1984 set tale, of a young wannabe soccer lout, Dom (Calum McNab), finding himself befriended and welcomed into the ICC's ranks by top dog, Bex (Paul Anderson), only to get on his bad side when he develops cold feet and tries to make a run for it.
Love club-footedly hops from one ill devised scene to the next, assaulting the senses with his trademark tin-eared dialogue and vacuous pop-promo visuals, making it increasingly obvious that he has no more interest in the psychological make-up of working class hoodlums than he does in trying to hone credible performances from his largely wooden cast.
In fact, the whole enterprise has amateur hour written all over it: too much of the story takes place in too few locations, instantly betraying it's meagre budget and giving the proceedings a fake, plastic sheen. A skilled and talented director would have pulled out all the stops to paper over the cracks and create the illusion of a more costly production, but Love's lack of flair and imagination insures he does neither.
This woeful handling of resources ultimately undoes the fight scenes too. Anyone who was around during that period (like I was), will clearly remember that these gang battles took place inside the grounds, and not on the streets as they're depicted here. Were you aiming for a revisionist angle Mr Love?
Worst of all though, is the dispiriting, vulgar display of designer sportswear on show. Instead of using this cosmetic tick as an incidental background detail to enhance the story's sense of time and place, it's pushed crassly to the front line for a crude catwalk assembly of primary coloured tracksuits and 'smart casual' togs, resulting in an overstuffed canvas of Logo-porn to lather up the army of Ad*das fetishists this shameless parade is no doubt squarely aimed at.
And if none of that has 'whetted' your appetite, then all the above is accompanied by a putrid, pumping 80's disco-pap soundtrack to give your ears a kicking as well as your eyes. 'Enjoy'.
I missed it the first time around and only caught up with it very recently on DVD and found it to be a dated, campy, theatrical affair that seemed more concerned with presenting a political parallel to the Iron Lady's tyranny than properly addressing that era's (equally troubling) violence on the terraces. At the very least though, it did have a point and a purpose, both of which must have run for the hills when the 'genius' that is Nick Love (the non-thinking man's Guy Ritchie) came a-knocking at this particular property's door for a Noughties 'reimagining'.
With an impressive lack of insight/understanding for the source material, Mockney-boy Love launches his audience head first into an ineptly staged 1984 set tale, of a young wannabe soccer lout, Dom (Calum McNab), finding himself befriended and welcomed into the ICC's ranks by top dog, Bex (Paul Anderson), only to get on his bad side when he develops cold feet and tries to make a run for it.
Love club-footedly hops from one ill devised scene to the next, assaulting the senses with his trademark tin-eared dialogue and vacuous pop-promo visuals, making it increasingly obvious that he has no more interest in the psychological make-up of working class hoodlums than he does in trying to hone credible performances from his largely wooden cast.
In fact, the whole enterprise has amateur hour written all over it: too much of the story takes place in too few locations, instantly betraying it's meagre budget and giving the proceedings a fake, plastic sheen. A skilled and talented director would have pulled out all the stops to paper over the cracks and create the illusion of a more costly production, but Love's lack of flair and imagination insures he does neither.
This woeful handling of resources ultimately undoes the fight scenes too. Anyone who was around during that period (like I was), will clearly remember that these gang battles took place inside the grounds, and not on the streets as they're depicted here. Were you aiming for a revisionist angle Mr Love?
Worst of all though, is the dispiriting, vulgar display of designer sportswear on show. Instead of using this cosmetic tick as an incidental background detail to enhance the story's sense of time and place, it's pushed crassly to the front line for a crude catwalk assembly of primary coloured tracksuits and 'smart casual' togs, resulting in an overstuffed canvas of Logo-porn to lather up the army of Ad*das fetishists this shameless parade is no doubt squarely aimed at.
And if none of that has 'whetted' your appetite, then all the above is accompanied by a putrid, pumping 80's disco-pap soundtrack to give your ears a kicking as well as your eyes. 'Enjoy'.