Although not quite comparable, this film reminded me somewhat of THE SIXTH SENSE, in which an entertaining movie frustratingly missing greatness is suddenly transformed into something much richer and more complex by a startling climax. Shane Meadows is one of the few filmmakers today who actually understands the meaning of irony, that it's not a synonym for sarcasm, that it isn't just a case of saying the opposite of what you mean. Meadows contrives to lead his viewer up a particular path of emotions and meanings before pulling back at the crucial moment to reveal, in their horror, its full implications. Topically, refreshingly, it is also one of the most sensible films about fascism in a long time.
Knock-Knock, a gangly redhead with back problems, and Romeo Brass, the chip-guzzling offspring of a failed interracial marriage, are best mates, although their friendship must be beneath the surface, so joyless and antagonistic does it seem. Both live in home environments that aren't actually welcoming, though in no way dysfunctional. One day, Knock-Knock is being bullied by older boys, and when Romeo gets involved, a ruckus ensues, stopped by Morrell, a bizarre, hooded petty thief probably in his 20s, who looks like a dim James Coburn, and speaks in the oddest, over-emphatic parody of Alan Partridge. He befriends the boys, and gets Romeo to ask his beautiful sister, Ladine, to go out with him.
Knock-Knock plays a relatively harmless joke on Morrell, which results in him looking mildly foolish in front of Ladine. At the same time, Romeo moves in with Knock-Knock when his brutal dad comes back after being thrown out by his new lover, parking his van outside the house. Morrell seems like a harmless eccentric, but on a seaside trip he threatens Knock-Knock for humiliating him, and the two boys drift apart: Romeo spending all his time with Morrell, Knock-Knock undergoing a serious back operation, and recovering alone in his room. When Morrell finally gets Ladine to his house, but doesn't get the enthusiastic response he expects, the stage is set for violent confrontation.
BRASS is brilliantly multi-layered, but, until that climax, is a little disappointing. Compared to the inspired stylisation of SMALLTIME, in which music, style, dialogue and performances offered a distanced and contrived, yet perversely truthful portrait of petty crooks on the make, the more conventional presentation here, reminiscent (a cliche, but true I'm afraid) of a BBC TV drama, seems a little regressive. The chief result of this is that it makes the still stylised performances, situation and humour seem unrealistic and a little phoney.
Once you adjust to this, though, minor pleasures are legion. There is great truth and emotional empathy in the friendship of the boys, its rupture and eventual reconciliation. Although the twee guitar music is laid on a bit thick, Meadows achieves some sublime epiphanies out of his mundane material, in particular the gorgeous swimming pool sequence early on.
And although the film largely focuses on the two friends, it does not follow their point of view. Caricature isn't always avoided, but Meadows has a great sense of adult sadness and failure unavailable to the boys - Romeo's mother, exasperated with her son, obviously carrying horrendous scars from a past only tacitly alluded to, torn with confusion over how to deal with her errant husband; her daughter Ladine, beautiful and smart, yet forced to make do with a psychotic loser; Knock-Knock's mum, always caught in immobile silence, stuck with a childish husband who has to bully little children to feel powerful, and would rather watch telly then visit his son.
The evocation of a stagnant midland town, which doesn't seem to have changed since the 1970s, is masterly and sad. The comedy, though often obvious, is hilarious, arising as much from simple slapstick, as from the boys' precocious worldview, the adult's often infantile behaviour or the strangeness of Morrell.
Kudos have rightly been offered all round to Paddy Considine, but it's a remarkably odd great performance, not naturalistic at all, but a series of initially amusing tics and mannerisms that soon become very scary and doubly moving because of his evident inability to control them. Such is his childlike nature, we don't actually find it odd that he should want to hang around with younger boys until elders start saying so, so that our response becomes so socially conditioned as to leave us vulnerable for the climax.
What is especially difficult is that Morrell's seeming reactions don't fit his emotions - he doesn't seem too humiliated after Knock-Knock's joke, and even gets a date out of it, which is what he wanted, so when he menaces him by the seaside, it is truly alarming, we've actually built up quiet a store of sympathy for him.
But the climax is the thing, and I won't spoil it for you; suffice to say that it's the most powerful sequence British cinema has managed in years, that any society needing thuggery to save its very obvious helplessness is very disturbing, and that the happy ending, replete with Union Jack, is morally sickening, yet oddly moving.
Knock-Knock, a gangly redhead with back problems, and Romeo Brass, the chip-guzzling offspring of a failed interracial marriage, are best mates, although their friendship must be beneath the surface, so joyless and antagonistic does it seem. Both live in home environments that aren't actually welcoming, though in no way dysfunctional. One day, Knock-Knock is being bullied by older boys, and when Romeo gets involved, a ruckus ensues, stopped by Morrell, a bizarre, hooded petty thief probably in his 20s, who looks like a dim James Coburn, and speaks in the oddest, over-emphatic parody of Alan Partridge. He befriends the boys, and gets Romeo to ask his beautiful sister, Ladine, to go out with him.
Knock-Knock plays a relatively harmless joke on Morrell, which results in him looking mildly foolish in front of Ladine. At the same time, Romeo moves in with Knock-Knock when his brutal dad comes back after being thrown out by his new lover, parking his van outside the house. Morrell seems like a harmless eccentric, but on a seaside trip he threatens Knock-Knock for humiliating him, and the two boys drift apart: Romeo spending all his time with Morrell, Knock-Knock undergoing a serious back operation, and recovering alone in his room. When Morrell finally gets Ladine to his house, but doesn't get the enthusiastic response he expects, the stage is set for violent confrontation.
BRASS is brilliantly multi-layered, but, until that climax, is a little disappointing. Compared to the inspired stylisation of SMALLTIME, in which music, style, dialogue and performances offered a distanced and contrived, yet perversely truthful portrait of petty crooks on the make, the more conventional presentation here, reminiscent (a cliche, but true I'm afraid) of a BBC TV drama, seems a little regressive. The chief result of this is that it makes the still stylised performances, situation and humour seem unrealistic and a little phoney.
Once you adjust to this, though, minor pleasures are legion. There is great truth and emotional empathy in the friendship of the boys, its rupture and eventual reconciliation. Although the twee guitar music is laid on a bit thick, Meadows achieves some sublime epiphanies out of his mundane material, in particular the gorgeous swimming pool sequence early on.
And although the film largely focuses on the two friends, it does not follow their point of view. Caricature isn't always avoided, but Meadows has a great sense of adult sadness and failure unavailable to the boys - Romeo's mother, exasperated with her son, obviously carrying horrendous scars from a past only tacitly alluded to, torn with confusion over how to deal with her errant husband; her daughter Ladine, beautiful and smart, yet forced to make do with a psychotic loser; Knock-Knock's mum, always caught in immobile silence, stuck with a childish husband who has to bully little children to feel powerful, and would rather watch telly then visit his son.
The evocation of a stagnant midland town, which doesn't seem to have changed since the 1970s, is masterly and sad. The comedy, though often obvious, is hilarious, arising as much from simple slapstick, as from the boys' precocious worldview, the adult's often infantile behaviour or the strangeness of Morrell.
Kudos have rightly been offered all round to Paddy Considine, but it's a remarkably odd great performance, not naturalistic at all, but a series of initially amusing tics and mannerisms that soon become very scary and doubly moving because of his evident inability to control them. Such is his childlike nature, we don't actually find it odd that he should want to hang around with younger boys until elders start saying so, so that our response becomes so socially conditioned as to leave us vulnerable for the climax.
What is especially difficult is that Morrell's seeming reactions don't fit his emotions - he doesn't seem too humiliated after Knock-Knock's joke, and even gets a date out of it, which is what he wanted, so when he menaces him by the seaside, it is truly alarming, we've actually built up quiet a store of sympathy for him.
But the climax is the thing, and I won't spoil it for you; suffice to say that it's the most powerful sequence British cinema has managed in years, that any society needing thuggery to save its very obvious helplessness is very disturbing, and that the happy ending, replete with Union Jack, is morally sickening, yet oddly moving.