If you wanted to sum up the whole of Marx in one short, snappy
quote, I would probably choose this: ‘the history of all previous societies has
been the history of class struggles’. Class is something which runs deep in the
veins of our country: since the beginnings of the monarchy, an deeply
traditional and status-based institution which still stands tall today, Britain
has been defined by its vast range from the Upper Class to what was once
called, and perhaps still is, the Working Class. The Riot Club, the new film by Lone Scherfig and based on the play
‘Posh’ by Laura Wade, satirizes our culture of exclusive clubs, more
specifically those drinking societies which have become so notorious at the
more prestigious universities in the country: hilarious and utterly shocking in
equal measure, it tackles the issue of what I think is a whole new kind of
class conflict in Britain, and why it has become so dangerously rooted in our
psyche. |
| The actual Bullingdon Club, in the days of Boris and Dave |
On the surface of things, we have a fairly simple set up: a group of
‘filthy rich and spoilt rotten’ adolescents whose solution to everything is
throwing more money at it, and whose thirst for authority is only exceeded by
the nepotism on which they all thrive. This makes very close reference to The
Bullingdon Club, an exclusive members club at Oxford, which gained notoriety
through its rampant hooliganism in the Oxford area, or perhaps more so by its
famous alumni including the Prime Minister, the Mayor of London, and the
Chancellor of the Exchequer. Indeed, the film beautifully paints a portrait of
members who above all want to succeed: the club’s president James
Leighton-Masters expresses his deep passion for ‘investment banking’, while the
mysterious Uncle Jeremy demonstrates the sort of contacts which the boys are
clearly eager to gain through membership.
And strangely enough, this ‘surface’, or at least the first half an
hour or so of the film, is intensely enjoyable: just as Jack Whitehall has made
his name in comedy, in particular his JD caricature in Fresh Meat, we relish the opportunity to see how ‘the one percent’
live, and even more so have a good old laugh at them. The ten young actors
playing the ‘Rioters’ enter into the roles with such ease and delight, spouting
off some of the film’s funniest lines (‘How do you make an Eton mess? Tell him
he only got into Bristol’). We perhaps indulge in some irony that the majority
of these actors have come from comfortable middle class backgrounds, while
indeed some sort of nepotism is clearly in play, notably the presence of
members of the Irons and Fox families, Max and Freddie respectively. The
stereotype remains lighthearted, endearing, and most of all, very likeable.
Yet, as I recall, I left the cinema feeling pretty shocked and ever
so slightly sick, and having thought about it, I feel I can put this down to a
variety of things. First and foremost, the members are absolute animals, in the
most literal of senses. The lighthearted joviality descends quickly into what
is perhaps one of the most raucous and vulgar dinner parties that might ever
appear on film: champagne and cocaine are consumed in equal measure, sexist
propositions are bandied around freely, and the ‘banter’ quickly descends into
pretty full on character assassination. Without wanting to spoil the
outrageously shocking climax, you leave the cinema wanting to punch every
single one of these bastards.
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| '''Old Money, New Problems' The original poster for Laura Wade's play at the Royal Court |
But there is more, something slightly more unsettling the simple
on-screen grotesqueness. What becomes more and more apparent through the
underlying themes of the film are the changing paradigms of this class war
which runs through the history of our nation. Alistair Ryle, a particularly
contemptible individual, with a penchant for screaming lines such as ‘I’m sick
and tired of poor people’, raises an interesting, albeit slightly ill-timed
argument. Have the rich and poor become utterly inseparable, regardless of
belief, politics, or even personality? George Balfour, a more likeable member
of the group, talks of how he spends many an hour in the pub drinking with the
locals: Ryle, points out that he has paid for the rounds, and that once he has
left, the locals are surely laughing at him. We find this distinction becoming
more and more rigid: if you are ‘posh’, you are posh, and no matter how you try
you can never become one of the others. Miles, the main focus of the film, is discovered
to be the ‘Right Honourable Miles Richards’: it is just a title, he replies,
and its ‘only historical’. Bur our treatment of him doesn’t differ: he has been
labeled posh, and thus finds himself inevitably lured in by the other ‘poshes’.
It is in fact Miles’ story that we find so heartbreaking: clearly infatuated by
his girlfriend and a desire to be ordinary, he is corrupted and tainted by the
allure of tradition and exclusivity, and eventually becomes on of the rest of
them. He can’t escape his background.
What is so shocking is that we can see this obsession with classism
everywhere we look. We love, adore, and enter into ‘tradition’ at every
possible opportunity, without actually stepping back and thinking why it is
actually so respectable. As with this ‘posh’ stereotype, we laugh at them for
one very simple reason: because they are different. Simply because they have
wealth does that make them fair game? On a daily basis I, as I’m sure any other
reasonable and liberally minded individuals do, take offense at the classist
slogans of publications such as the Daily Mail, and their slander of their so-called
‘feral underclass’. We are told their social norms are merely a subject of the
environment in which they are brought up: is it not, therefore, justifiable to
apply the same to the other extreme of society. The Riot Club does a fantastic job at showing what happens when the
greedy and grotesque get their hands on too much money, in a fascinating way. The
emerging message for me was one of the very essence of the word ‘Posh’, a
slander perhaps on the same level as the frequent Daily Mail-isms. Our history
is a history of class war, and it doesn’t look like its going stop any time
soon.
