It's central construct of playing witness to your own past might be as creaky as the boards the middle-aged Barbara Windsor is treading, and the script has a fair few clunkers, but Babs is mostly saved by some peerless performances that make this a amiable way to pass ninety minutes, but some way off the kind of satisfying success ITV biopics like Jeff Pope's Cilla enjoyed.
Samantha Spiro is effortless as the middle-aged, seemingly washed up Windsor, as you would expect from someone who jokingly admits to having played Windsor for half her life now (she had previously played her at the National in 1998's Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick, reprising the role for the TV adaptation, Cor Blimey, in 2000) but it's Jaime Winstone who really shines here with the role of the young Babs, capturing her sexy look, her defiant pluck and that infamous wiggle and giggle that made her both a national treasure and the wet dream fantasy for many of schoolboy in the 1960s. Neither actress goes for an impersonation, as that wouldn't be enough to sustain a biopic alone, but they capture an essence of the person remarkably well.
They're both nicely supported (ooh-err!) by Nick Moran as Windsor's father, the man whose love she was constantly searching for throughout her life, an unfortunately all too underused Leanne Best as her mother (why give her so little to work with? Best is a brilliant performer who lifts anything she appears in), Luke Allen-Gale as bad boy Ronnie Knight, and the inspired casting of Zoe Wanamaker as Joan Littlewood and a wonderful spot of mimicry from Robin Sebastian as Kenneth Williams. Only Alex MacQueen as Windsor's agent jarred; I know he has his screen persona of the prissy, over-enunciating dullard of dubious sexual orientation, and I have liked him in many other things, but it's the only thing he does in each role he takes and it just doesn't sit well when he's required to act outside of comedy or as something or someone else - look at his ineffectual turn as a political villain in series three of Peaky Blinders, and it's the same here.
When the film actually settles down to focus on Barbara's big break with Littlewood's legendary Theatre Workshop, Babs comes alive, but Tony Jordan's script feels compelled to throw in too many in-jokes (the Dame reference, the Carry On style score) and flat footed references ('you've an offer for a film...the producer is Gerald Thomas' *clunk*) that consistently hold the film back and shy away from the answers it's naturally searching for as the film refuses to pinpoint why it feels Windsor's potential was ultimately as squandered as it was, leading her to throw her lot in with the Carry On team. I also really felt like the whole thing was hampered by the little meta-touch of crowbarring the real Windsor into the film; I'm not so cold-hearted to begrudge her her song at the end (performed to an audience made up of the cast and crew, which was a lovely touch) but the other two instances in the middle of the film just feel wrong and out of place, threatening to sink the whole affair. On this occasion, less would have been more.
Based on Rachel Hirons' hit stageplay When Women Wee, Powder Room the debut of female director MJ Delaney, is an authentic and fresh film about female status anxiety explored over the course of one chaotic and calamitous night for two groups of twentysomething girls at a Croyden nightclub, with much of the action taking place in the titular ladies loos.
A fine ensemble of young female talent including Sheridan Smith, Jaime Winstone, Oona Chaplin and singer Kate Nash invest much into the realistic earthy dialogue and funny scenarios that will chime with any female nightclub goer, and indeed clubbers in general. We'll all know a shitty club like this, the kind of club that is the only option in a modern day British urban town if you want to have fun after a certain time of night, and we'll all recall nights like this in some small way.
The heart of the film is Smith's character, a woman whose night out finds herself torn between two groups; Winstone's more loutish, girls-just-wanna-have-fun mob whom she works with, and old friends Chaplin and Nash who, having found some success in new media circles, are perhaps more obnoxious - albeit for different, distinctly snobbish reasons. The crux of the film ultimately concerns the lies Sheridan's character spouts to keep her circle of friends apart and why she feels she has to present herself differently in the first place - a situation I expect we've all found ourselves in in one form or another.
Flashy direction from Delaney helps to open out the film from the trappings of its stage origins, but its just decoration (though admittedly a visually pleasing one at that) and the real meat is to be had in the dialogue. Granted, if we're to compare it to what has gone before, well it's not Andrea Dunbar quality writing, but it's a far better representation of a generation of working class girls than something that ITV2, BBC3 or E4 churn out with alarming regularity, and it is at least one that is singularly being told by that gender, which should be applauded not derided like some reviews have been keen to do. Receiving its TV premiere on Sky Movies this week alongside Matt Whitecross' delightful ode to Stone Roses fandom, Spike Island, it's somewhat promising to see such aspects of British youth culture being depicted with a degree of unique parochial identity, charm and panache (other recent films like Svengali also fit such a category) and whilst its clear they'll never trouble BAFTA I don't think that spoils the overall enjoyment to be had from this fare. Who knows , Powder Room and its contemporaries may become something of a sleeper cult in a few years time.
To start this review, I thought I'd share some pre publicity/marketing soundbites from the film's star Jaime Winstone;
“Elfie Hopkins has been an alter ego of mine for a while now, and I can’t wait for the world to meet her. She’ll kick ass! For me, Elfie’s a dream role to play, and I feel there is a gap in the British film industry which we will more than fill!"
Pretentious much?
Try this one
"Ryan and I have been looking forward to making this film for years since our styles just collided and we really hit it off. It feels the right time to capture that 1990s vibe now."
Some of us were actually around in the 90s and well remember the dismal folly of film style this guff was clearly inspired by. Tank Girl springs to mind. At least those film were testing new ground though, trying to be different. All Elfie Hopkins is trying to do is pay a misguided homage to such lame poorly performed and achingly hip to the point of naff vehicles.
Winstone couldn't wait for us to meet her alter ego, a pot smoking grunge-angst Nancy Drew who discovers she lives next door to a murderous cannibal family, frankly she needn't have bothered. I'm not convinced at all by Jaime's acting - beyond her small acceptable role in Made In Dagenham - and this starring role does nothing to disprove those misgivings. It's a distinctly mannered performance that believes being snarky is actually to be kooky and that charisma is something one can simply adopt. You really can't. Going by the inspirations the film has it is clear that it needs an Emily Lloyd (first choice for Tank Girl) type as Elfie, yet in Winstone what you actually get is poor quality and misjudged performance more in keeping with Lori Petty's eventual Tank Girl.
Incidentally Winstone's shaven head obnoxious female ex squaddie turn in the recent series of Mad Dogs screamed Tank Girl to me, proving she hasn't quite finished with this 'wow weren't the 90s cool?' phase.
God I feel old.
It's a real shame that a film such as this sinks or swims on its lead perfomance as there are some truly talented actors in the supporting cast; Aneurin Bernard, Kate Magowan, Steven Macintosh, Rupert Evans, Richard Harrington, Kimberly Nixon (looking good in jodhpurs it has to be said) and Gwyneth Keyworth, who have all impressed in other productions but seem at sea here with the overly quirky tone or given near fuck all to do.
And then of course there's a cameo from Jaime's dad Ray as a butcher called Bryn who seems to have a West Country accent as opposed to the Welsh one you'd expect (actually for a Welsh set film there's precious little Welsh accents around) but given that his daughter can't be arsed adopting an accent beyond her sulky mockney one can excuse him. What you can't excuse him for however is that the accent he adopts is godawful, proving he cannot play anything but his usual gruff Londoner. So why try? Ray also co-executive produced the film alongside fellow professional cockney Billy Murray. For co-executive produced read stumped up cash for his little princess.
In short, Elfie Hopkins is a lamentable crappy jumble of village murder mystery and gory horror by way of 90s grunge and an overt, ill advised attempt at capturing a certain kind of British eccentricity. It's a slow moving cocky pretentious 90 minutes that falls apart in the final act that feels so desperate to shock it put me in mind of a toddler reciting swear words at the top of their voice in front of a teacher. The film as a whole feels like a poorly realised conversion of graphic novel to the big screen, which is baffling to consider that no graphic novel actually exists. If the film truly wanted to capture the 90s vibe of such strip to screen flops as Tank Girl then congratulations it succeeded perfectly. But that's some Pyrrhic victory.
A film to avoid.
