By Leslie Byron Pitt
The man who introduced me to Shane Meadows, Richie, is no longer with us. Around the time I started to consider writing this piece, Tyson Fury had recently stopped Dillon Whyte to retain his heavyweight boxing titles. I found myself with a profound desire to rewatch Shane Meadows' 90s tragicomedy TwentyFourSeven. Of all the films on boxing that one can seek in the hundred-plus years of cinema, this little indie that could wormed its way back into my consciousness. In turn, I found my thoughts centring on my old friend from Somerset. A man whose passion for media influenced me more than I even dare to think. We had first met in my hometown of High Wycombe. We were both working at the local cinema and bonded over the sitcom Spaced and our love of Hip-Hop. I started this piece before taking a long break from it. As the 4th anniversary of Ritchie’s death loomed overhead, I found myself back at my computer.
At college, while writing film reviews, I cribbed quotes from his rants and received high marks. He introduced me to pulp movies like The Way of the Gun (2000) and Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001). I would argue about the virtues of Paul Thomas Anderson. Richie despised what he considered the pretensions of filmmakers like Anderson. He was more into the cult comedy stylings of films like Men at Work (1990) and The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (1990). Of those two titles, I preferred the latter over the former. But our friendship lay in other shared passions. Watching and yapping about the likes of Shane Meadows, Takeshi Kitano, and (early) Kevin Smith. This became our middle ground.
Richie passed away in October 2021. He left us not even a week after my wife and I lost our second child, Ava. Two weeks before he passed, I was sitting on a patio with him, cackling over Warner Bros leaving one of the Nun characters from Ken Russell’s The Devils in the background of Space Jam 2’s medley of studio stars. Richie had moved back to Somerset but periodically returned to visit the few friends he still knew back in Buckinghamshire. At this time, we hadn’t seen each other since my wedding in 2018. He wasn’t one for social media. So, I spent some time informing him of what he missed. He was gutted at the news that my wife and I had lost our first child, Samuel, in 2020. But he was pleased to hear about Ava. Little did we know that tragedy would strike again. The one-two punch of these losses has made October a difficult month to process. A moment of compounded grief.
A bachelor for as long as I knew him, he always seemed pleased when his friends got into relationships. He would bombard my wife with GTA text updates. She called him a true gent. A few people did. Maybe it was his Army training. He was good at hiding his cynicism. When I heard the news, I looked back at our group wedding photos. I couldn’t see him. He may have hidden in the crowd. He wasn’t too fond of pictures. I sense, Dear Reader, you are seeing a pattern.
While he was not one for stroking his ego on social media, Richie was a (not-so-quiet) influencer in getting others interested in stuff. Opinionated to the point of annoyance, Richie was best when he found something you liked, wandered down his memory palace, and found something similar he could recommend. He was a hype man for recreation. Shane Meadows was a big one for him. We headed to the cinema for the enjoyable Kitchen Sink Western, Once Upon a Time in the Midlands (2002), but Richie was big on Meadows' early features. “Oh, Dude,” he’d exclaim in his West Country accent, “you’ve got to check out A Room for Romeo Brass!” I picked up the Shane Meadows DVD box set at a time when doing so would cost most of your weekly cinema income. He wasn’t wrong, though. It’s a fine box set. One I still own. And it includes TwentyFourSeven.
Set in an unnamed Nottinghamshire town, TwentyFourSeven centres on Alan Darcy (a monumental Bob Hopkins). A hardworking and passionate man who has fallen on hard times after the reign of Thatcher. Fed up with the rival juvenile gangs who loiter around the area with little to do other than eat chips and fight each other, Darcy decides to unite the youths of the town by building a boxing club. Darcy holds an unwavering opinion that opening the club will bring crime down and give those who join something to believe in. Animosity slowly shifts to respect, and all signs point to Darcy’s idea being a source of good. However, tension builds when Darcy’s plan to hold a tournament between his crew and another club, and exterior conflicts build around the group.
Meadows is an outstanding economic filmmaker. With the ability to mine profound richness from seemingly very little. A quality like that of Terrance Davis. While Hopkins is the film’s lead performer, TwentyFourSeven has a considerable and varied cast who all play their part in the film’s 90 minutes. All of whom are given enough character to fill out their plot strands. There are familiar faces here as well. Yes, that is Les Battersby from Coronation Street. That certainly is a young James Corden. Every character gives something to the story. Even if they have limited screen time. The film touches on themes of coming of age, drug abuse, domestic violence, homosexuality, generational disconnect, and socioeconomical politics, but does so with an incredibly deft touch. Moments carry weight but never feel heavy-handed. Depth is found in simple, delicate moments. Handprints left on glass tables. A mentor lying at the bedside of a friend who’s had a momentary relapse. A glass being held by a hand shaking with anxious realisation. When the context is removed, these descriptions might sound odd or mundane. But watch how they fit into this narrative. They become moving. This quality has never left Meadows as a director. Even as he moved to larger “small” films such as Dead Man’s Shoes (2004) and This is England (2006).
TwentyFourSeven’s depth is cleverly wrapped up in a stylish and cine-literate package. The film happily name-checks Rocky (1976), with some of the subplots and themes appearing to be wry nods to the Hollywood crowd-pleaser. The textured monochromatic cinematography owes more than a passing acknowledgement to Raging Bull (1980). Again, TwentyFourSeven liberally borrows and twists themes from Scorsese’s savage biopic. Alan Darcy, much like Jake La Motta, is a passionate lover of the sport of boxing but also a man who is unable to quell the rage that swells inside him. Much like On the Waterfront (1954), quipping La Motta, Darcy could have been a contender; however, having surrendered himself to his aggressive actions, he becomes a bum. The film opens with the unfortunate road where Darcy’s rage takes him.
Part of my love for this film is the counselling aspect that I had also often found in Richie. He didn’t have a volatile nature. There was no aggressive streak that inhabits the mentor figures in Shane Meadows' movies. But the geeky passion Richie had for so much media felt like many of the characters witnessed in the films we watched together. Richie was a guide during my college and university years in a similar way Darcy became to his boxing group. It would be easy to get annoyed at his all-or-nothing opinion on things, but never in his desire to get you invested in the things that also entertained him. Watching TwentyFourSeven again, the key aspect in Darcy is that his enthusiasm was infectious. As was Richie’s. At one point, Richie and I would meet up once a month to watch wrestling pay-per-views and eat wings (or Ribs). Said meet-ups grew rapidly in numbers. Soon, becoming all-night events fuelled by chicken and caffeine. All situated within a rather moderately sized living room. Richie, with his broad grin, would inform everyone which wrestlers we should want to win. He was in his element.
What’s enjoyable, and ultimately heartbreaking, is Darcy doing what he can to bring back a sense of community to a midland town that feels forgotten by everyone else. Believing wholeheartedly in the nobility of his cause, the wish to be a force for good to groups of boys who are struggling with abandonment, absenteeism, and despair is endearing. Watching the film almost 30 years on, this type of idealism feels so distant, yet still required. Indeed, watching TwentyFourSeven in the social media era feels strange now. More towns look even more like the film’s unnamed, midland town. While the people these days who inspire young boys now are obnoxious, bigoted loudmouths who seem to exist in our phones like digital ether. Intangible but potent. I was no delinquent, but watching a film where one man tries to rouse a sense of belief in young men, all the while being similarly inspired by a person seemingly doing the same thing, is quite an experience. A melding of fact and fiction. Life and art. Both Richie and Darcy were beacons of motivation. To take what you can from them and use it to bring people together.
Roger Ebert was dismissive of TwentyFourSeven, with the critic openly admitting from the start of his review that he didn’t understand why Boxing is recommended to young boys in depressed areas. His opening statement puts a distance between himself and the film. While the broad view that boxing gives boys an inner belief is vague as a gesture, TwentyFourSeven highlights that inspiration and community can be gained from unlikely spots. Ebert, who famously claimed that movies are vehicles of empathy, seems to neglect the compassion that TwentyFourSeven has in abundance. Much like the film’s patriarch antagonist, played by former Coronation Street mainstay Bruce Jones, Ebert was unconvinced by Darcy’s plight. It’s a shame not to be convinced by Darcy’s unconventional yet positive intentions. Much of the persuasion lies in the bullish yet sensitive performance from Bob Hoskins. There’s an anxiety that can be seen on his face when he pleads his case. His conviction is the key to the film. And it’s conviction that I still believe with every viewing. This is a man who wishes to give something back. He is devastated when things go awry.
Richie died of heart failure brought on by catching Covid-19. He detailed that he didn’t wish to have a funeral. His parents stated that all he asked for was for his friends to remember him and the time shared together. My memories of Richie were watching cult movies, wrestling events, playing video games, and eating wings. Nothing too out of the ordinary. But there was another layer. To share each other’s passions. No matter how trivial. To find common ground and connection, despite it being unconventional. I’ve never been too sure on how to do this right. To honour such a particular kind of friend. Pictures weren’t forthcoming. But the passion of his opinions was strongly remembered. For me, his recommendations certainly were. There are more than a few films that remind me of Richie. Possibly too many. I thought maybe writing about one would be the right thing. There’s a strong chance he would disagree. But I’d still write it. Pass on the passion. Like Richie did with me. I feel it’s best to leave this piece with two lines in the journal in which Darcy records his thoughts throughout the film.
“To give is the most splendid feeling. Letting go of your own for the pleasure of another.”
Thank You, Richard Adamson.
