Rediscover: Withnail and I

Rediscover:

1986

Rediscover is a series of reviews highlighting past releases that have flown under the radar and now deserve a second look.

Withnail and I is unquestionably a comedy, but Bruce Robinson’s heavily autobiographical cult hit is lots more into the bargain: a wine-soaked work of strange and splendid brilliance, serving at once to characterize the squalid excesses of late 1960′s London, capture the decay of artistic idealism in a sea of debauchery, and constitute a cinematic anthem for ensuing generations of students and starving artists, hopelessly charmed by some of the greatest comic dialogue every written. Few films draw the viewer so surreptitiously, so completely into the atmosphere of an era as it teeters on the brink of extinction, its radicals and revolutions swiftly becoming artifacts of the past – and this one succeeds, magnificently, all while simultaneously invoking Hamlet, resurrecting Hendrix as the quintessence of cool, introducing Richard E. Grant to the film world and inspiring a notoriously dangerous drinking game. At least to my mind, cult status doesn’t quite do this film justice.

Largely inspired by Robinson’s youthful antics alongside his captivating, perennially inebriated friend Vivian MacKerrell, Withnail and I follows the drunken stumblings of the titular characters (Richard E. Grant and Paul McGann, respectively), two unemployed actors anxious to drown their discontent in anything – pills, pints, lighter fluid – that will dull the sting of failure and break the monotonous wait for a callback. McGann’s “I” (or Marwood, as he is called in the script) is alternately pensive and paranoid, aware of the destructive cycle in which they live and yet anxious to placate Withnail’s belligerent determination to drink at all costs (“I’ve got to have some booze,” he declares, wild-eyed, to the room at large, “I demand to have some booze!“). However, when mysterious life forms and decaying matter threaten to consume the kitchen sink, even Withnail admits that he feels “unusual;” and realizing that they are indeed “drifting into the arena of the unwell,” the pair decides to escape the clutter of their Camden Town flat and evade the clutches of their far-out dealer, Danny (Ralph Brown) by sucking up to Withnail’s fussy and flamboyantly gay Uncle Monty (played to cringe-inducing perfection by Richard Griffiths) in exchange for a free weekend in the country at his cottage in Penrith.

Turns out, the price is a bit higher than Marwood imagined. Crow Crag cottage is completely devoid of facilities, and the lads — equally devoid of survival skills, Wellingtons, aspirins, or anything else beyond a bottle of scotch that one might imagine necessary for a rustic weekend away — flounder about until a desperate Withnail exclaims to the neighboring farmer, “Please, we’ve gone on holiday by mistake!” After several inept attempts to catch, cook, or cajole some food onto their plates (moments hilarious in their realism and rendered even more so by Withnail’s incredibly cowardice and unflinchingly witty, withering banter), Withnail and Marwood finally find a pub: for a brief and cozy moment, all seems right in their sodden little world. But such harmony, of course, can never last — and when an amorous Monty descends unexpectedly upon the boys bearing food, fine wine and seductive designs upon the terrified “I,” their story takes a significant thematic turn. Withnail drinks himself into a coma one evening, leaving Marwood to Monty’s unwanted advances; naturally, pseudo-farcical mayhem ensues. But beneath the humor bubbles a predatory sexual context, hinted at in the beginning of the film and indicative of the abuse that was apparently fairly common in the male-dominated film and theater milieu of the period (Robinson himself was propositioned by Franco Zefferelli during a youthful turn as Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet).

Monty’s arrival in Penrith creates a juxtaposition of fading worlds, and with it the unraveling of what has thus far been an unorthodox “buddy” film into something a bit deeper. The poetic realm of erotic companionship for which Monty imagines himself a standard-bearer – “the last island of beauty” in a modern “world of weather forecasts and breakfasts that ‘set in’” – is obviously already a thing of the past; and the gloriously self-indulgent ’60s, for which Withnail and Marwood might at first seem to be poster children, is on its way to the grave, taking its justifications for excess with it and awakening Marwood to the fact that selfishness and stagnation (herein personified by Withnail) must be abandoned for the sake of survival. For all his posturing — by which we realize, almost poignantly, that he is in fact a gifted actor — Withnail is utterly devoid of principles. His willingness to lie, cheat, steal and scheme has no higher purpose than the next round of drinks, leaving him adrift and alone amongst the star-crossed idealists in Monty and Marwood who, for all their foibles, at least believe in something. Without Marwood to give him a raision d’etre, Withnail is doomed to unravel; and when the pair returns to London to discover that Marwood has landed a job, their impending divide becomes inevitable.

Just like the humor that carries three-quarters of the film, the tragedy at its conclusion is great because it is utterly real. In a moment of stoner lucidity, the drug dealing Danny admits, “they’re selling hippy wigs in Woolworth’s, man…the greatest decade in the history of mankind is over…and there are going to be a lot of refugees;” seconds later, Marwood cuts his heretofore unkempt “hippy” hair short for his new role and, donning a fedora, departs for the train station. The symbolism is heavy-handed but effective, hollowing out the space around Withnail and ultimately leaving him in the rain, tattered and alone, a half-empty bottle in hand (Margaux 53, “best of the century”) and spouting Shakespeare into the ether with surprisingly affecting feeling. For all his self-centered idiocy throughout the film, Withnail here convinces us, just for a moment, that he deserves his place alongside the tragic heroes of his craft. And for that impressive feat we can thank Robinson’s extraordinary directorial gifts, Grant’s singular delivery and unique talent, and the peculiarities of a decade that continues to fascinate and unite idealistic minds.

by Lauren Westerfield