Okay, fellow travellers through time and tape hiss, let's crack open a truly singular bottle tonight. Forget the multiplex gloss for a moment and cast your mind back to that slightly dog-eared VHS box, maybe rented from a dusty corner shelf, promising something... different. I'm talking about Bruce Robinson's 1987 masterpiece of misanthropic majesty, Withnail & I. This isn't your typical 80s fare; there are no synth-pop montages or heroic cops here. Instead, we get damp, despair, and dialogue so sharp it could draw blood. And honestly? It’s glorious.
For the uninitiated (and how I envy your first viewing!), the film drops us into the fag-end of the swinging sixties – London, 1969. Hope has curdled, the flowers have wilted, and in a Camden Town flat that looks like it actively cultivates new forms of mould, reside two spectacularly unsuccessful actors: the acerbic, perpetually outraged Withnail (Richard E. Grant in a role that instantly cemented him as legend) and the comparatively level-headed, increasingly desperate Marwood, known only as 'I' (Paul McGann, radiating weary decency). Their lives are a cycle of cheap wine, lighter fluid (don't ask), unemployment, and dodging the landlord. It’s bleak, yes, but Robinson’s script, drawn heavily from his own experiences, finds excruciating humour in their squalor.
Words Like Shrapnel
If you’re looking for explosive action, you’ve come to the wrong place… unless you count the verbal pyrotechnics. The dialogue in Withnail & I is the main event, a relentless barrage of quotable despair and aristocratic bile, mostly fired from Withnail’s perpetually sneering lips. Remember the sheer force of lines like "We want the finest wines available to humanity! We want them here, and we want them now!"? Delivered by Grant with an intensity bordering on mania, these aren't just funny lines; they're desperate cries from the bottom of a bottle, the death rattle of dashed dreams. Grant, famously a teetotaler, committed so fiercely it’s almost frightening. There’s a legendary (and possibly apocryphal) story that Robinson plied him with drink before one scene to capture genuine intoxication, resulting in Grant being utterly incapacitated for a day. True or not, it speaks to the raw, almost physical performance he delivers – a practical effect of pure character immersion.
A Holiday By Mistake
Their grand plan to escape the grime? A trip to the Lake District cottage owned by Withnail’s flamboyantly eccentric Uncle Monty (Richard Griffiths, stealing every scene he's in with a performance both hilarious and unsettlingly predatory). What follows is less a relaxing getaway and more a descent into rural hell, complete with relentless rain, hostile locals (including the legendary poacher, Jake), and a distinct lack of food or fuel. The comedy darkens further with Monty's arrival, his cultured pronouncements ("I think the carrot has mystery. Flowers are essentially tarts. Prostitutes for the bees.") barely masking his designs on poor Marwood. Griffiths, primarily a stage actor before this, crafts a character for the ages – pathetic, menacing, and utterly unforgettable. He reportedly based Monty’s voice on an old tutor.
The Beauty of Bleakness
Shot on a shoestring budget (around £1.1 million), Withnail & I embraces its limitations. The film looks damp and cold. Director Robinson and cinematographer Peter Hannan don't shy away from the peeling wallpaper, the greasy washing up ("There's drainer filth!"), or the unforgiving grey skies of the Lake District (actually filmed largely in and around Penrith, Cumbria, and also Hertfordshire for the cottage exterior). This wasn't the slick, polished 80s; this felt like a hangover captured on celluloid. That slight graininess, the muted colours – it felt perfectly at home on a worn VHS tape playing on a flickering CRT, the imperfections somehow enhancing the film's grimy authenticity. You could almost smell the decay, which apparently wasn't far from the truth on set – Grant has mentioned slathering Vicks VapoRub under his nose to cope with the stench of the real washing-up pile used as a prop!
Enduring Cult Status
Despite its brilliance, Withnail & I wasn't an immediate smash hit. Critics were somewhat divided, and it took time, word-of-mouth, and countless late-night screenings and video rentals for it to achieve the monumental cult status it holds today. It perfectly captured a specific strand of British disillusionment and gallows humour, becoming a rite of passage for students and film lovers. Its influence is undeniable, and the dialogue has entered the lexicon for anyone who’s ever felt broke, hungover, or just utterly fed up. And that soundtrack – King Curtis's soulful sax, Jimi Hendrix's electrifying "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)" – perfectly complements the mood shifts from manic energy to melancholic resignation.
***
VHS Heaven Rating: 9/10
Why? Withnail & I is a near-perfect distillation of acidic wit, tragicomic character study, and atmospheric dread. Grant's performance is iconic, Robinson's script is endlessly quotable, and its bleak beauty is unforgettable. It loses a single point only because its specific, potent flavour might be too strong for some palates – it demands your attention and offers little comfort.
Final Take: This isn't just a film; it's a mood, a brilliantly bleak poem to failure and friendship's frayed edges. It’s the kind of raw, character-driven cinema that feels bracingly real, miles away from today’s smoother edges – a potent shot of vintage despair that, ironically, never fails to lift the spirits of those who love it. Required viewing, preferably with a glass of something cheap and red.