Courtesy of IFC Films
Brighton Rock is an interesting bit of business, not quite what it wants to be, but largely entertaining if you don’t watch too carefully during or think too hard afterwards. Based on a Graham Greene novel (that has been adapted once, iconically, in 1947 by John Boulting featuring a ground-breaking performance by Richard Attenborough in the starring role), Joffe’s directorial debut uses Greene’s screenplay but updates its setting to the early 1960s, using the youth tensions between Mods and Rockers as a backdrop for its noir tale of violence, love, and religion.
Greene’s Pinkie Brown is a notoriously perfect villain, amoralistic in his lust for power and taste for violence. Joffe gives viewers a Pinkie who is opportunistic as well, moving from uncertain lackey to fearless and ruthless leader in the course of a few scenes. What motivates his shift, however, isn’t altogether clear. Cold-eyed and expressionless, Sam Riley (Control, and soon to play Sal Paradise in Walter Salles’s upcoming On the Road) plays Pinkie’s sadism convincingly, but offers little in terms of impetus beyond a determination not to be fingered for the killing.
The biggest risk to his freedom is mousy waitress, Rose (Andrea Riseborough), who works at a tearoom on the Brighton Pier (filmed actually at Eastbourne due to Brighton’s popularity and modernization). Out of place at work and bullied at home, Rose has little to ground her beyond her faith—in Roman Catholicism and in love. Unwittingly photographed with Pinkie’s victim, Rose must be kept quiet to maintain Pinkie’s freedom. Pinkie will ensure her silence at any cost—first through seduction and marriage (a wife cannot be forced to testify against her husband) but later through death (his seduction moves out of the bedroom and onto a cinematically-arresting cliff: in the film’s climax, Pinkie woos Rosie toward suicide, convincing her that only mutual death and damnation will preserve their union).
Pinkie and Rose are positioned at opposite ends of the spectrum, Pinkie insisting that because he is bad, and Rose is good, they are made for each other. Both are “Romans,” but Rose’s faith is motivated by the beautiful promise of heaven and Pinkie’s by the frightening guarantee of Hell. Greene’s Roman Catholicism is well-documented and discussed; here Joffe draws viewers’ attention to it only sporadically, though the film’s closing shot lingers on a crucifix after Rose’s faith in love is (falsely) confirmed.
The two make an uneasy pair throughout, Rose often physically outpaced by Pinkie. Eye contact is seldom made, physical contact is tense and reluctant. Rose’s innocence is the last of its kind, about to be made obsolete by late modernity. She completely trusts Pinkie, almost from their first meeting, that viewers are tempted to pity her, a girl so obviously in need of belonging to someone, so obviously out of synch with the changes around her. When Pinkie sadistically pinches her arm, Rose looks directly into his eyes: “You can keep doing that if you like it.” It’s unclear if she’s unafraid because of her faith in good or because of her flirtation with evil. Her presumed innocence makes her quick adaptation to Pinkie’s lifestyle a bit problematic, suggesting perhaps that she might be using him to escape her dreary life and reinforce her worldview. Her conversion seems complete when she takes his money to re-make herself in the fashion of the times, donning pink mini-dress, white tights, and heels for her debut as a married woman. But Pinkie isn’t playing dress up, and his violent takeover of Brighton’s petty underworld won’t stop until he is assured of his safety.
Maybe asking what motivates these characters is akin to asking what motivates Greek gods. They act the way they do because they occupy a critical role at a pivotal turning point in history, not as truly realistic players but as agents reacting to forces around them.
Riley and Riseborough’s performances may be up for debate among the critics, but the film uses heavyweights of British acting to provide a firm foundation. Helen Mirren, need I say more? Mirren dominates every shot she’s in, her Ida using her age, sexuality, and own nerves of steel to wrest Rose from Pinkie’s corruption. Sharing the screen with Mirren for the first time, John Hurt plays Phil Corkery with a humanistic depth lacking in most of the film’s other characters.
Though character development and storyline might cause viewers’ attention to flag on occasion, John Mathieson’s stellar photography does much to captivate our gazes. Mathieson’s use of light and camera angles makes every shot worthy of a still, shooting through 1960s lenses complemented by the production design’s careful balance of darkness and color. (Hipstamic could make loads off developing a new lens named Brighton.)
Finally the film is far from perfect, and a viewer going in with memories of Greene’s novel or Boulting’s earlier adaptation might leave the theater put off by Joffe’s updates. But if you’re looking for entertainment over art, you’ll find the time in the theater well spent.
