A Very British Gangster

About thirty minutes into A Very British Gangster Donal MacIntyre turns his attention away from the bravado of Dominic Noonan and his army of young soldiers to the barren Manchester community they control and suddenly his film makes sense.

Up until this point investigative journalist MacIntyre seemed to be giving gangsters the oxygen of publicity, buying into their sub-Reservoir Dogs suited-up swagger with a score of low-angle hero shots cut to a choice soundtrack.

But, when he looks elsewhere MacIntyre’s documentary becomes a fascinating character study of a deceptively complex criminal and a savage indictment of inner-city desolation. Resembling City of God’s Rio slums, this Manchester is a wasteland of boarded-up houses, chain-smoking kids, dogs humping amidst piled high rubbish; a place where you can travel ten streets and never leave the scene of a crime.

MacIntyre also has a good leading man in Noonan, a hefty, bald, loquacious cross between Tony Soprano and Fantastic Four’s The Thing; a “social worker” to the community he never left behind, sorting out local problems and putting on firework displays for local kids.

Noonan is also under constant police surveillance for suspicion of kidnapping, extortion, torture, drug running and firearm possession, and is a regular fixture at law courts where he has a knack for dodging serious crime sentences.

Plus, the contradictory villain is unashamedly gay and peoples his crew with threatening shaven-headed teenage boys. Noonan also has a son, Bugsy, who wants to be a boxer and a nephew who dreams of X-Factor glory and sings at “weddings, funerals and acquittals…mostly acquittals”, while his cousin Eileen dishes out fried food to the dozens of scallies who turn up for a feed.

Although clearly aching to take the glory for his misdeeds, Noonan is savvy enough not to spill the beans on camera, leaving this to his crack-addicted underworld hitman brother Desmond, clearly destined for a sticky end from first sight, and a gang of pitiless drug dealers who boast, “no-one taught us right from wrong; no-one taught us how to read or write… we can count money though.”

MacIntyre is not afraid to ask tough questions of his imposing subjects, and employs feature film devices (slow motion, crane shots) to give his documentary a big screen sweep, marred only by a repetitious narration that betrays its TV origins.

Forget Guy Ritchie’s mockney morons, this is the real, chilling, deal.

Rob Daniel