Sunday, 16 February 2014

Filth (2013)

Wha's BAFTA game eh? 

Wha's that aboot?

Aff their heeds or wha?

Fuckin' BAFTA? 

Fuckin' BUFTY mair like! 

They can kiss ma sweaty bawbag fe not givin' McAvoy the fuckin' nod fe his actin' here. 

Pure deid brilliant it was. 

Best by miles.

Nae bawhair.

Fuckin' miles!

An' nae BAFTA?

Nae even a sniff o' wan?


Shan as fuck aye.

So see BAFTA? 

Ken them shitey bastarts aye? 

Well BAFTA can git tae fuck.

Can't really say much more than that can I? This is a sublime adaptation of Irvine Welsh's novel and having seen it now, I feel somewhat ashamed that, being a fan of the book, I initially didn't think its deliciously surreal depravity would work on the screen - because it does. OK, some things have to be jettisoned or overlooked (No Hillsborough rants, no Jim Davidson admiration, less tapeworm, but we get Frank Sidebottom which will hopefully teach idiots that he really existed before the Fassbender film appears) but this still works and is a credit to Welsh's text.

And yeah the real crime here is that McAvoy's superbly dark alcoholic drug taking Machiavellian foul mouthed racist misogynistic bipolar fallen hero isn't up for a BAFTA tonight. 

Nae justice.

Nae fuckin' justice.

(PS: And David Soul's cameo just proves he's The Man)


  1. The fate of the police dog had me in tears of laughter...

  2. He won't get an Oscar nod in the US either. They won't reward pure, realistic characters like this one. McAvoy can do no wrong, and was flawless. He'll have to be happy without a shiny trophy to prove he's fucking awesome.