White Dog

Director: Samuel Fuller (1982)
Starring: Kristy McNichol, Paul Winfield, Burl Ives
Find it: IMDB

We've all been there - it's a peril that goes hand in hand with meeting new people. You're chatting with a new colleague or acquaintance; you're getting along rather well - maybe even making plans to meet in the pub later for a couple of bevvies - and then boom, there it is. The racist comment. "I think you should vote like me," the hideous racist Viking, as I like to refer to him said, "you should vote BNP." Ew. And for the record, fucking no. He then went on to explain his belief to us all that Indian men should be banned from hospitals. Because of their unhygienic beards.

It's a problem Julie Sawyer (McNichol) knows only too well, adopting the German Shepherd she accidentally runs over late one night. Cuddly, goofy*, shaggy*, loyal and utterly lovely-looking, it doesn't take White Dog (he never gets a name) long to ingratiate himself into her life. At around the point he saves her from a would-be rapist, Julie falls in love with her dog. Only, it emerges, White Dog has serious issues. White Dog is a fucking racist. Trained by his previous owners to attack black people, White Dog has a serious aversion to people of colour; going so far as to murder one innocent truck driver as he goes about his rounds late one night.

Desperate not to lose her new best friend, Julie brings him to a Hollywood trainer, hoping that she can un-teach an old dog his antisocial tricks. If Keys (Winfield) takes his mission personally, it's because he sees it as an opportunity to show that racism can be un-learned. And also, you know, because he himself is black, and White Dog is a fucking racist.*

Well-meaning and powerful (if flawed), White Dog is a typically eighties exploration of racism and civil rights issues, rarely beating about the bush in its pursuit of the jugular. Based on a true story (no, an actual true story), the story is effectively told by director Samuel Fuller and supported by a wonderful score from Ennio Morricone. Tune in expecting subtlety, and you'll be disappointed. It's effectively Bolt meets American History X. Go in with a soft spot for dogs and a love of eighties cult cinema, and you should have a good time with it. As good a time as you can have with a movie about an aggressively, possibly irredeemably racist dog, anyway.

* Like UKIP.

Filth

Director: Jon S. Baird (2013)
Starring: James McAvoy, Jamie Bell, Eddie Marsan
Find it: IMDB

A film which was released in October and I have seen three times already. A film which apparently gets better every time I see it. A film which I gave a 3/5 the first time I saw it, a 4/5 the second time I watched it and, finally, 5/5 last time. I guess next time I see Filth, it'll have achieved 6/5. By the time I watch it for the umpteenth time, it'll have achieved self-awareness.

I have never claimed to be one of those impartial, objective reviewer types, but there is something about Filth which really speaks to me, making it one of the best films I've seen in years. Maybe it's because James McAvoy is also incapable of growing a beard, instead winding up with a crap gingery, pube-esque stubble through which you can still sort of see the outline of a chin. Shit beard growers of the word, unite.

McAvoy plays Filth, a medium-ranking police officer suffering from drug addiction, alcoholism and a severe bipolar disorder. Determined to score himself a big promotion, Filth bullies, lies and undermines his way around his colleagues while also attempting to solve an all-important murder case on the way. Meanwhile, the hallucinations and delusions get ever worse, with Filth Bruce rapidly spiralling out of control. I read Irvine Welsh's Filth in preparation for its UK cinema release. It quickly climbed the charts to become one of the best things I've ever read.

As such, Baird's adaptation was initially a disappointment. There's not even a tapeworm. The film baulks at the darkness of Welsh's novel, cutting back and toning down much of its excesses. Honestly, I just wanted the tapeworm. But then, as I watched the film for a second and third time, I came to appreciate Filth for what it was - watchable. Honestly, if they'd left in everything the film cut out, you'd be left with something as unwatchable as Salo. And, besides, this version has an insane energy all of its own.

McAvoy is mesmerising as the almost irredeemable Bruce Robertson. Grubby, nasty, horrible and yet charismatic in spite of it all, it's a fascinating portrayal of a very Scottish Bad Leuitenant. It's not hard to imagine Nicolas Cage playing Bruce in an American remake. Around him, the film thrives on its surrealist scenes of fantasy, animation, impromptu musical numbers and, um, Jim Broadbent with a massive head (essentially standing in for a tapeworm). Eddie Marsan, Shauna Macdonald, Jamie Bell and Imogen Poots all impress in supporting roles, while John Sessions is the most bearable he's ever been.  

Since its release, Filth has quickly become a solid favourite. Even better, its Christmas setting makes it a great festive watch. This isn't the Filth of the novel, but it's gorgeous all the same.