Director Michael Winterbottom has
achieved the impossible: he has made a biopic of Paul Raymond, Britain’s
most colourful porn baron, that’s unobservant, unerotic and dull.
The flashback structure resembles Citizen Kane, but little else does. There’s no technical virtuosity here and, worse, no insight. It’s neither comedy nor tragedy: a flat, superficial film that’s a huge wasted opportunity.
Steve Coogan’s shallow performance as the Clacton pier mind-reader turned coke-sniffing pornographer is pathetic, but not in the way intended. It’s flippant and lightweight.
The growth of a pernicious porn
business is portrayed as cheeky, harmless entrepreneurialism — a
valuable form of libertarianism. In the film, Raymond’s magazine empire
consists of just one periodical, Men Only.
In reality, his seven porn magazines constituted half the British market. One of these, Escort, ran adverts for a paedophile who offered ‘schoolgirl photos’ through a box number and sold hundreds of photos of children in sexual poses.
Articles in Raymond’s magazines condoned rape and being a peeping tom. But if you’re looking for any clue in this film that pornography might degrade women or menace children, you’ll look in vain.
Nor is there any attempt to provide a social context. According to this film, Raymond was a roguish one-off.
In reality, he had to fight off
competitors, including attempts by the IRA and Maltese gangsters to
muscle in on his profits. He also bribed the police on an industrial
scale.
These interesting, socially significant and potentially dramatic areas are ignored.
The one tragic dimension is provided by Imogen Poots, who struggles with an underwritten role as Debbie Raymond, Paul’s daughter, who was over-indulged by her father and descended into alcohol and cocaine addiction that killed her at 36. Yet Winterbottom is so cool about her that little human sympathy comes through.
Mr Coogan promised before the film came out that it would avoid ‘Daily Mail’ judgmentalism. It certainly does. And that’s partly why it’s a turkey. It’s not just judgmentalism it lacks, it’s judgment. Biopics don’t come more heartless or dishonest.
The flashback structure resembles Citizen Kane, but little else does. There’s no technical virtuosity here and, worse, no insight. It’s neither comedy nor tragedy: a flat, superficial film that’s a huge wasted opportunity.
Steve Coogan’s shallow performance as the Clacton pier mind-reader turned coke-sniffing pornographer is pathetic, but not in the way intended. It’s flippant and lightweight.
Porn again: Steve Coogan plays porn mogul Paul Raymond in The Look Of Love - a surprisingly unsexy film
In reality, his seven porn magazines constituted half the British market. One of these, Escort, ran adverts for a paedophile who offered ‘schoolgirl photos’ through a box number and sold hundreds of photos of children in sexual poses.
Articles in Raymond’s magazines condoned rape and being a peeping tom. But if you’re looking for any clue in this film that pornography might degrade women or menace children, you’ll look in vain.
Nor is there any attempt to provide a social context. According to this film, Raymond was a roguish one-off.
Not filling the shoes: Steve Coogan¿s shallow performance as Raymond is pathetic, flippant and lightweight
These interesting, socially significant and potentially dramatic areas are ignored.
The one tragic dimension is provided by Imogen Poots, who struggles with an underwritten role as Debbie Raymond, Paul’s daughter, who was over-indulged by her father and descended into alcohol and cocaine addiction that killed her at 36. Yet Winterbottom is so cool about her that little human sympathy comes through.
Mr Coogan promised before the film came out that it would avoid ‘Daily Mail’ judgmentalism. It certainly does. And that’s partly why it’s a turkey. It’s not just judgmentalism it lacks, it’s judgment. Biopics don’t come more heartless or dishonest.