Drugs, Alcohol or Lies (A 24 Hour Party People review)

Man seeks to escape himself in myth, and does so by any means at his disposal. Drugs, alcohol, or lies. Unable to withdraw into himself, he disguises himself. Lies and inaccuracy give him a few moments of comfort. 

Jean Cocteau, "On Invisibility", Diary of an Unknown 

You know your trouble, Tony? You don't know what you are. I fucking know what you are, but you don't know who you are.

Well, my curiosity's got the better of me, Rob. Tell me, what am I?

You're a cunt.

Well, you see, I knew that, you see. That was something I did know. 

Anthony Howard Wilson can be viewed as the patron saint of Manchester, or as the biggest prick to ever crawl out of Salford. Often both. A Cambridge-educated journalist working for Granada Television, he had a reputation for being very intelligent and charismatic, but was also pompous and infuriating. Part of this was intentional - Wilson took delight in "wind(ing) up all the people in Manchester who think I'm a flash cunt", and set out to become the flashiest and the cuntiest of them all.

Wilson was growing bored with the music scene of the 70s when he attended a Sex Pistols gig at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in June 1976, organised by future Buzzcocks frontman Howard Devoto. Forty-two people watched Johnny Rotten stamp and sneer on stage amidst a squall of cheap guitar: Bernard Sumner and Peter Hook, then going by the name Stiff Kittens; Martin Hannett, the future architect of the Manchester sound; Jon the Postman, legendary for jumping on stage and treating all and sundry to his bellowed rendition of "Louie Louie"; Steven Morrissey, the poet laureate for angsty teens the world over. For them, the gig was revolutionary. Here was a new type of music, one anyone could do. If it was good enough for the red-haired tit on stage, it was good enough for them.

This lighting of the blue touch paper is captured in 24 Hour Party People - sort of. Tony Wilson, here played by Steve Coogan, points out all the important players (and Mick Hucknall) in the story, talking about their futures, like how Sumner and Hook go on to become Warsaw, later Joy Division, and how Hannett will try to kill him. He describes the gig to his producer as "history", comparing the small turnout at the Free Trade Hall to that of the guest list at Caesar's assassination. Wilson is obsessed with the idea of creating a new mythology. 24 Hour Party People chronicles how successful he was at that.

The film, as written by Frank Cottrell Boyce, is something of a primer on Manchester's music scene, specifically focusing on Factory Records, the record label set up by Wilson as an "experiment in human nature". Wanting to get involved in the music scene, Wilson moves from merely hosting bands on his TV show to promoting concerts, starting a weekly series of punk rock concerts at a club with Alan Erasmus (Lennie James) and Rob Gretton (Paddy Considine). He calls it "Factory", so he can see a sign that says "Factory Opening" rather than "Factory Closing". Eventually, Factory becomes a record label, although arguably it's more of a collective. Signed acts retain all the rights to their music, profits are split 50/50 between the band and management, and both "are free to fuck off as they please".

The fortunes of Wilson are spelt out by the opening shot of him hang gliding over the Penines for Granada. Despite having no formal training or instruction, Wilson actually manages to get quite far, before ultimately crashing back down to Earth. Didn't catch the metaphor? Don't worry, he'll tell you. The first signing is local band Joy Division, whose contract is signed by Wilson in his blood. Their gigs are popular, first album Unknown Pleasures sells out its limited run, and they're about to tour North America - until their troubled lead singer Ian Curtis (Sean Harris) hangs himself. Later on, Factory signs the Happy Mondays, who ride the crest of the baggy Madchester wave, and opens up the legendary Haçienda nightclub. Then their fourth album is held hostage by Shaun Ryder (Danny Cunningham), who refuses to write lyrics and leaves Factory with a record full of instrumentals that, due to financial difficulties, they have no choice but to release. It's not a fitting note for them to bow out on.

If there's one thing music writers like, it's turning the lives of singers and bands into pop legend. Elvis walking into Sun Studios, The Beatles performing for the first time on The Ed Sullivan Show, David Bowie and Iggy Pop fighting their demons in Berlin - all these events are imbued with a kind of weight, elevated to the level of Gilgamesh, and bleed into the mainstream, with pilgrimages to Graceland and countless tourists re-enacting album sleeves at the zebra crossing on Abbey Road. Maybe it's because there's some part of our brains that must worship or believe in something, but we form modern folklore out of just about anything. The King of Rock n' Roll dying on the toilet isn't a dignified exit, but to us, it's up there with Davy Crockett falling in battle at the Alamo.

Michael Winterbottom and Robby Müller shoot the film using camcorders, giving it a rough grainy feel. This fly-on-the-wall approach is visual shorthand for "authentic" or "realistic" - remember how affecting the Omaha Beach landing in Saving Private Ryan was because of how gritty and spontaneous it looked and felt. It lacked glamour, lacked polish, so it felt more honest. Winterbottom plays with cinematic language here. The use of handheld cameras, especially low-rent looking ones that were used for this film, would lead the viewer to think that all this actually happened. It feels like a documentary, possibly one used by the BBC for a cutaway during a news report.

Except, of course, it isn't. Wilson regularly breaks the fourth wall, claiming he's "postmodern, before it's fashionable". He monologues to the audience, tells you about things they couldn't fit into the film, points out all the cameos from post-punk figures (Paul Ryder, Mark E. Smith of The Fall, Vini Reilly of The Durutti Column in a "deleted scene") - he's the second, shadow viewer of the film. He's not even the real Tony Wilson; the actual Wilson appears as a director on Wheel of Fortune, cutting out his film self's rambling monologue about Boethius. There's a memorable scene where his then-wife Lindsay (Shirley Henderson) has revenge sex with Howard Devoto (Martin Hancock) in a toilet, and Wilson only stops by to pick up his keys. As he leaves, he passes a janitor, who remarks to the camera that "I definitely don't remember this happening". This is the real Howard Devoto, as Wilson explains in a voiceover, acknowledging the sex never actually happened, but explaining that the legend is preferable to the truth.

Thus, 24 Hour Party People blurs the line between documentary and fiction, while also creating a convenient get-out clause for any accusations of bullshit. Was Wilson really at the same Sex Pistols gig as Sumner and Hook? What inspired Warsaw to change their band name: conflict with another band, or a better name coming along? Did Shaun and Paul Ryder really once feed poisoned bread to pigeons? Who cares? Wilson insists that last one really happened, but that's missing the point. It doesn't matter if it's true or not, but it's a great story. Isn't that what matters? Considering how many films bill themselves as "based on a true story" and then deviating wildly from real events, it's refreshing to see one that goes, "Yeah, you know what mate, this probably didn't happen, but it's a laugh, in't it?".

At the same time, the cinéma vérité approach works to cement the various legends that circulate around the bands. Even if we know there's a good chance the film's playing silly buggers with us, we still can't help but look at all this grainy footage and think it's being authentic. Take the period of the film covering Joy Division. The band are signed to the newly born Factory Records in a pub, with Wilson writing out a contract in his own blood. He hires the brilliant and possibly insane Martin Hannett (Andy Serkis getting some of the film's best lines) to produce their first record, doing so while Hannett stands on a hill "recording silence". During production on what would later become Unknown Pleasures, Hannett forces drummer Stephen Morris (Tim Horrocks) to disassemble his kit and play on the roof, possibly for hours. There's never been any more evidence to suggest this happened other than rumour, but it seems like the sort of thing that would happen, right? I mean, it looks so compelling!

At Curtis's funeral, Wilson invites a journalist (Simon Pegg) to write a detailed account, describing the man in the coffin as "the musical equivalent of Che Guevara". He knows that legend is about to be born, and needs a good midwife to carry it out. Jon Savage, writing in June 1980, wrote about how Joy Division would forever be seen through the lens of Curtis's suicide, how they'd always be seen as brooding and intense, "prophets of urban decay". Both are right - the Unknown Pleasures cover has made a popular T-shirt decoration right up there with el Che. And while Sean Harris plays Curtis as internal and tightly wound, the film spends very little time on the dark angsty Joy Division; the members all get on, joke about, and look out for one another (Sumner and Morris help Curtis during one of his seizures). This comes across as a little tasteless - Curtis's suicide just sort of comes and goes, with no mention of his mental illness or his extramarital affair - but then, The Life and Times of Joy Division aren't the focus of the film. Considering how bloated the film is already, there's no place for it. Rather, it's about how legends are created.

It's fitting for Steve Coogan to be playing the lead. Alan Partridge was, in part, a Tony Wilson impersonation, so here everything comes full circle. Coogan described both men as like big fish in small ponds, but whereas Partridge never gets an opportunity to leave for a bigger pond, Wilson never lasts more than five minutes outside it. Both men are arrogant and kinda unsympathetic, but endearing in their own ways. I can't say for sure how accurate Coogan's portrayal is, as his Wilson is the sort who quotes philosophy even when buying Weetabix, but that might be the point, given how fast and loose the film plays with the truth. What stops him from being punchable is his genuine belief in what he's doing; this isn't a pose or a style of fashion for him, it's framed like a genuine calling, and he'll gladly go bankrupt if that's the price he must pay. The rest of the cast is particularly notable for how it manages to contain what feels like every British actor and comedian working at the time: John Thomson, Rob Brydon, Dave Gorman, Peter Kay, Andy Serkis, John Simm and Ralf Little all get an appearance. Even Christopher Eccleston turns up for a brief scene as the philosopher Boethius, apparently reincarnated as a beggar.

24 Hour Party People is a curious bird. It's a true story, but it owns up to making things up as it goes along. (Indeed, Wilson's narration often seems like the film is reviewing itself.) It's self-consciously arty and experimental, but it doesn't come across as smug or ostentatious because there's clearly a lot of love about the subject matter, while just flip enough to avoid taking itself too seriously. It sells how anarchic and free-wheeling and fucking mental the whole enterprise was. Think about it. Factory Records was set up by people who had no idea how to run a business, who had no game plan, who let the artists do whatever they liked, often to their detriment.

But you know what? You can't say they didn't have a blast.

Ta, mate. I'm Boethius, author of The Consolation of Philosophy. It's my belief that 'istory is a wheel. "Inconstancy is my very essence," says the wheel, "Rise up on my spokes if yer like but don't complain when yer cast back down into the depths. Good times pass away, but then so do the bad. Mutability is our tragedy, but it's also our 'ope. The worst of times, like the best, are always passing away."