Thursday, July 18, 2013

no hell field in.

A Field in England (2013).
Dir: Ben Wheatley.
Cast: Julian Barratt, Peter Ferdinando, Richard Glover, Ryan Pope, Reece Shearsmith and Michael Smiley as O'Neill

For those readers from foreign parts a wee bit of a history lesson might be in order to truly appreciate this movie seeing as it's set in the olden days.

During the year (of our Lord) 1642 the weather in England was particularly warm causing the majority of the nation to become rather grumpy due to half of them having to wear heavy cloaks, frilly shirts and large hats, topped off with rather fancy moustaches every day because shorts and t-shirts had yet to be invented.

These foppish fellows were nicknamed Cavaliers.

At the other extreme of English culture were an unfortunate group suffering the affliction of massive heads due to the law forbidding them to remove their hats.

Banding together in the town of Bradford these unfortunates pulled together to form Britain's first "crusty-punk" pop combo's The New Model Army.

These fellows were known as Roundheads.


With neither the weather or the fashions improving everyone got together and decided that what the country needed was a war to take everyone's minds of things.

Being English tho' it was decided not to have any violent skirmishes like other less civilized nations but to conduct the whole thing in a very courteous and kind manner.

Hence The English Civil War was created.

A war that was fought without real weapons but mainly with the armies standing either side of a huge hedgerow firing eggy smokebombs and shouting at each other.


"Quick men! Load the rotten egg cannon!"

It's during one of these hedge-based hullabaloos that we're introduced the angry Captain Percy Trower (the tiny eyed Barratt from hit teevee comedy The Mighty Boosh).

And the reason for his anger?

Apart from having to appear in this movie obviously?

Well, it appears that the other team have decided not to turn up instead rigging up a selection of flour bombs in the bushes accompanied by a tape recording of common people screaming and shouting "Ooh Aar!".

Not expecting such coarse language, Trower's men have become so frightened that they've taken to falling headlong thru' the shrubbery in a state of utter panic not helped by the fact that poor Trower ends up impailed on a Do Not Feed The Ducks sign due to an unexpected chorus of The Wurzels hit 'Combine Harvester' suddenly blasting from a hidden tannoy.


"Miso! Miso! Fighting in the dojo. Miso! Miso! Oriental prince in the land of soup!"

As Trowers men run screaming from the scene, trainee alchemist and master debater Richard Whitehead (professional grumpy Blackbird Shearsmith from teevees The League of Gentlemen) awakens in the hedgerow only to discover  the enigmatic gypsy Ivor Cutler (Pope who was once in The Bill here channelling David Essex) gently trying to persuade the stubbly soldier David Jacob (ex ABBA hit Ferdinando) and his friend Friend (Sightseers star and fancy hat wearer Glover) to help him dig up a missing Irish necromancer (Smiley) who just happens to be hidden somewhere in the field alongside some treasure or something.

It's all rather vague and arty.

"This is a local field for local people! We'll have no plot development here!"

To aid them in their quest Cutler has kindly cooked a broth of magic mushrooms for everyone and organized a friendly game of tug o' war as well as penning a few novelty ditties to keep their spirits up.

Cue what seems like 16 hours of sub Wicker Man imagery, fetid folk tunes and endless scenes of one of Britain's greatest comedy talents running around pretending to be a pony.

In slow motion.

What the hell did poor Reece do to deserve this?

Fuck Wheatley's daughter?

"Please don't let the mooth shite-in start!"

From Ben Wheatley the pie guzzling beard obsessed director of the botched backstreet abortion that is Kill List and the fairly harmless Sightseers (well put it this way, I at least didn't want to self harm after it) comes quite possibly the biggest load of arse I have ever had the misfortune to sit thru.

Seemingly shot in glorious shades of muddy grey on an old Panasonic M10, what the film lacks in charm, production values and plot it more than makes up for in cod-intellectual (and ineffectual) ramblings and a pompous sense of self importance rarely seen in someone with so little talent, desperately wanting to channel the British horror brilliance of Pete Walker, Wheatley comes across more like a peat bog.

Obviously aimed at the lemming like chin strokers with more money than sense and those sockless art fags that clog up tube trains with their big portfolio's full of vapid reheated retro-wank, the lack of effort that appears to have gone into it's production (even the white balance is off, could they afford even a piece of fucking A4 paper?) is as offensive as the makers claims of producing a thought provoking piece of cinematic genius.

A field in England yesterday was unavailable for comment.

And for those of you angrily pouting that I've missed the point or that I'm just not clever enough to understand it (hello director of Yellowbrickroad) I have just this to say:

You've been had mate, get over it.

Truly the worst movie I have ever seen.

And from me you know that's something.

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