The Agent

Martin Wagner gets things done.  Tired of riding the abusive merry-go-round of literary agent representation, he took one’s advice and wrote what he knew. 

The result is The Agent, a play he funded himself (plus the accompanying book), and which now hits the silver screen.

But, this is no dream success story.  The film cost £26,000, is (well) shot on HD-cam, and is minus movie star approval; the leads reprise their stage roles, and a cameo from Maureen Lipman provides the most famous face.

The lesson is simple: making a living with words is a 24/7 job, with the scantest chance of recognition.

Admirably then, Wagner’s script is not a bilious, point scoring vendetta trip against those denizens of literary worth who gave him the blunt pencil for so many years.

Lesley Manning keeps the locations and camera moves coming, but the thick and fast dialogue unmistakably had its origins on the stage.  Luckily, the script is a sharply written, authentic sounding two-handed argument about the book world: where spin and marketing promote sure-fire hits, refusing to risk anything too clever.

Timid, nervous writer Stephen (a trembling, sympathetic Kennedy) goes to desperate measures when slick, commercially minded agent Alex (Beck, also surprisingly sympathetic, and reminiscent of Peep Show’s Robert Webb) has clearly written off his second book as a non-starter.

With a “metaphorical” gun, Stephen blackmails Alex into auctioning his book to the five major publishers, with a deadline of 6 o’clock to make an offer.  With five hours to kill, the two discuss life, the universe, and everything that allows mediocre books to fly off the shelves, while potentially great writers die in obscurity.

Rejecting bad-guy stereotypes, Wagner creates an unusual, compelling double act.  Are that many great writers undiscovered at the expense of trashy bestsellers?  Should the bottom line be the most important? 

The arguments and counter-arguments come thick and fast, and Wagner avoids dating the film by name-dropping J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, and so on. 

A labour of love and principle, right down to the uncommerical ending, its message does lodge in the mind.  Even if it doesn’t make you run out and immediately buy that F. Scott Fitzgerald book you always meant to read.

Rob Daniel