The Ladykillers

Capsule Film Review #36

This is the thirty-sixth in a series of short pieces (max. 250 words) about films. They appear weekly, in addition to my regular essays.

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Why is British cinema so bad?—that, at any rate, is the standard question. As J. G. Ballard wrote years ago, the ‘obvious’ reasons that Truffaut gave—that Britain is an island with drab weather, a rigid class system, and a strong theatrical culture—apply just as well to Japan.

One better question, however, would be: is British cinema so bad? Aren’t its achievements in that art form at least on a par with those of Germany or Spain? Don’t those achievements seem lesser than they are only because they are not equal to its achievements in literature, and because it shares a language with the USA, and therefore invites comparison with it? Some of the worst British films seem bad only because they try to do things that Hollywood does better; many of the best ones, though, do things that Hollywood has difficulty doing.

The widespread British belief that Britain is the only country in the world with a sense of humour is obviously untrue: and yet there is something particular to the black comedy of my country—its bawdiness, its nastiness, its cynicism…

So: a gang of small-time crooks accidentally reveals their loot to their sweet elderly landlady. There’s nothing to be done, they realise, except kill her. Yet they are unable to do so: instead, one by one, they kill each other—and they can’t even do that right. And if you think, understandably, that that deeply cruel set-up is Just Not Funny—well, welcome to Britain.

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