By Sheldon Hall
*SPOILERS*
The
problem with McVicar (1980) as a
biopic is that the part of its subject’s life I most wanted to know about is
covered in a brief caption at the very end. A closing intertitle informs us, if
we didn’t already know, that John McVicar (1940-2022), a career criminal handed
consecutive prison sentences totalling 23 years, eventually left behind his
life of crime to gain a first-class honours degree while still behind bars and
become a successful journalist and author. Indeed, he co-wrote the screenplay,
based on his published memoir. But this fascinating turnabout is not part of
the film’s story, which ends in 1970 after he is put back inside following a
prison break and violent bank robbery.
What
we have instead is a conventional tale of porridge and solitary on the inside,
awkward family life on the outside. Although McVicar is competently played by
The Who front man Roger Daltrey (who co-produced the film and also performs
some songs on the soundtrack), there is little here to suggest that beneath the
hard-man surface lay an articulate intelligence with a sharp understanding of
the social causes of criminality. The script prefers to revel in the aggressive
bravado with which he taunts prison officers, instigates riots, tunnels out of
the shower block and risks re-arrest after escape. McVicar’s attempts to bond
with his young son are sentimental rather than sensitive, all the film’s energy
coming from its criminal elements.
Directed
by Tom Clegg, a specialist in TV crime shows who also made Sweeney 2 (1978), it has a surface authenticity slightly belied by
the high-definition transfer on Fabulous Films’ Region B Blu-ray, which makes
the photography look more glossy than it probably did on first release in
cinemas (where it achieved substantial commercial success, placing twelfth
among UK general releases of 1980). In the scenes set in Durham Prison, the
actors playing the screws try slightly too hard with their Geordie accents (all
‘bonnie lads’ and ‘kiddas’) but this makes for an effective clash with the
mainly cockney prisoners. Cheryl Campbell’s role as McVicar’s wife is
predictably thankless but Adam Faith (another pop star turned capable actor),
Billy Murray, Steven Berkoff and Ian Hendry all fulfil their generic
requirements admirably.
The
extras, on what has been dubbed ‘Break-out Edition’, are an informative
making-of, with contributions from the genial Daltrey, co-producer Bill
Curbishley and music composer-arranger Jeff Wayne, and a short interview by
actor Keith Allen (who is not in the film) with the real McVicar, recorded late
in his life. He tells a sad and fascinating tale, more interesting than
anything in the main feature.
(Sheldon Hall is the Copy Editor of Cinema Retro magazine.)
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