Made
THEY called her the 'Battersea Bardot – a working class beauty who rose from the streets to the silver screen with a fairytale flourish.
In the mid-1960s, Carol White's girl-next-door beauty and effortless naturalism in front of a camera saw her grace gritty British realist efforts like Cathy Come Home, Poor Cow and Up The Junction.
Affairs, albeit hugely ill fated ones, with the likes of Richard Burton and Frank Sinatra, only added to her rocketing star status.
By 1972, however, White's star was waning. As the fabled, and frankly ridiculous, swinging '60s-espoused concept of classlessness gave way to the hippy hangover and three day week glumness of the 1970s, so her time seemed to be running out.
There was to be one last great leading role waiting for her that year though – and, thanks to Network DVD, now we can enjoy it once again. Well, if 'enjoy' is the right word for a film that tackles such subjects as inner city turmoil, casual racism and religious intolerance and brings us the delight of singer Roy Harper’s hairy behind.
Made is a bleak and unwelcoming film on some fronts but, as a final hurrah for the social realist movie of the previous decade, it’s a fascinating document.
It’s also an unfeasibly obscure artefact that has remained as rare as the proverbial rocking horse poop since it first crept out into cinemas.
White is Valerie Marshall, a poverty stricken single mother who finds herself torn between the affections of a self-obsessed pop star (Roy Harper) and a controlling local priest (John Castle).
It was directed by BBC veteran John McKenzie, who would go on to helm The Long Good Friday in 1979, and scripted by Howard Barker from his own play No One Was Saved.
White is brilliant as the beleaguered young mother trying to cope with her young child and a disabled mother while living hand-to-mouth on a crumbling, gang-ruled housing estate.
When the local priest offers her a day trip away from her misery to Brighton she meets up with Mike Preston, that aforementioned touring rock star, and starts up a relationship with him.
Harper is impressive in a lazy, somnambulist kind of way as the long-haired lover who uses Valerie’s situation as an inspiration for his latest hit single.
Others from Kris Kristofferson to Marc Bolan were apparently considered for the part, but Harper has just the right vibe of disinterested musician detachment to carry it off.
There’s even a scene where he’s interviewed by the great Whispering Bob Harris on the beach to add a little further period charm.
Harper’s songs, while unlikely chart-toppers in any world, have a weight of world weary folksiness that sit nicely with the period and the original score from John Cameron (whose credits include such cult gems as Kes and Psychomania) contributes a moody selection of cues that capture the era beautifully, with a low key funkiness all of their own.
There is one sequence that takes Harper’s Preston character out to the glamorous surroundings of Los Angeles but, that aside, this is a resolutely British film with all the grimness you’d expect from a film set in 1972.
For White, it was the beginning of the end – but it remains a treat to see her work her simple brilliance one more time.
