A lot of time has been wasted in the tabloids lately about the axing of the UK Film Council and what this will mean for the British film industry, especially considering the success of The King’s Speech, which was partly funded by the UKFC. Some, like Alex Cox, say it will be no great shakes to the industry as the funding body appeared to be mainly there to support major Hollywood product and costume dramas, while others say JESUS CHRIST, DANNY FACKING DYER!!
Sorry. This was going to be a thought piece about how the future of the British film industry may or may not be in jeopardy because of the cuts to funding, but every time the words ‘British film industry’ enter my head, all I can see is the great gurning face of mockney sparrow Danny Facking Dyer and his comedy cockney chimminey sweep cor blimey guvnor accent echoing through my head as he gurns and blimeys his way through another mockney role, and then fucks off into the next Brit Flik which probably caused the ConDems to cut the UKFC funding in the first place. The fact that the majority of these films aren’t even funded by the UKFC doesn’t matter – anything anyone can do to destroy the UK film industry can be reason enough to stop the inevitable rollercoaster that is Danny Facking Dyer getting his barrow boy bollocks onto the screen once more. Jesus, he’s even got an autobiography out called ‘Straight Up’ because, y’know, he’s a typical cockney mockney geezer and not like all the rest of them luvvies, like, because he drinks pints and supports West Ham and probably eats jellied eels as he does the Lambeth Walk around Buck House.
When challenged about any film he’s been in that was any good whatsoever a colleague of mine mentioned Severance, but I would argue that’s a good film DESPITE the appearance of Danny Facking Dyer. And the cast and crew commentary are even fucking worse, as Monsieur Mockney bandies his way through a tedious slew of cheeky chappie banter, hinting he was a bit tasty with the old narcotics in his time, cor blimey, guvnor, apples and pears, chim chimminey BOLLOCKS SHITE!!
He’s probably a lovely person when you meet him. As for the man himself, I cannot comment. Although it doesn’t help when he goes on Britain’s Hardest Pigeons and cor blimeys his way through another load of old trough. Or when he turns up on I Believe in UFOS and shows himself to be a man gullible beyond extreme. The best part is when he meets Patrick Moore, spends about 4.2 seconds asking him about UFOs, and then starts banging on about how Patrick’s sitting down, watching the cricket and drinking some wine like a proper English gent, cor blimey, me old trouser cockney lumme o’crikey blimey. Then he meets some people who tell him crop circles are really real and all that, honest guv and no mistakin me old chimney sweeping Victorian prostitute murderer, and he believes them. And then meets up with some other people who tell him that crop circles aren’t real, lumme crikey norks a lawdy, and he believes them as well. Which left the impression that if you dangled a paper plate in front of his luvvaduck eyes and told him it was the Martians there might be a good chance he’d believe you.
However, if you think about it rationally, Danny Facking Dyer is merely the mockney equivalent of the quota quickies they used to churn out in the 20s and 30s. Forced to turn out a certain percentage of films by the Cinematograph Films Act of 1927 British production houses tossed off a load of sub-standard filler which were subsequently forgotten about, and Danny Facking Dyer films are basically the same. Say, you reckon what the cinema going public really need right now is another film about, ooh, maybe some gangsters who go about being a bit tasty in a loveable mockney manner, cor blimey, and you need a name above the title to get some funding. Who better to fill that role than everyone’s favourite cheeky monkey, Mr Facking Dyer, as he Pearly Kings his way through another sub-standard role winking at the camera, offering a cheeky mockney smile and talking in that fucking idiotic atrocious ‘Bwimey, me owld geezer matey, lumme’ fucking witless mockney twitter which can only be attained by a lifetime of being stuffed up chimneys and hanging around with rakish scamps as they steal the pocket watches of fops and their blousey women.
There is a phrase in the film industry called ‘Doing a Dyer’. This means to take on any work that comes your way under the impression it’ll all dry up in the future and you’ll be left rolling around in your own filth, wracked with horrific memories of being a bit cockney in some old shite you barely read the script for, haunted for the rest of your life with the stark, terrifying reality that the endless stream of bollocks you’ve spewed forth into the collective unconscious can only come back to haunt you, and that the only repudiation from this soul sucking agony is to ignore it, screaming into your reflection in the mirror as you realise with horrifying uncertainty that you have denigrated all human life as we know. It used be called ‘Doing a Michael Winner.’
Actually, that’s harsh. Let’s face it, all he’s really done is turned out a few films, starred in a few plays, and presented a few TV programs, all in an irritating mockney accent. There’s plenty of worse actors out there (thank you Rosie Wankington-Shyteworthy, the bint from Transformers 3) and it’s not like his films are as insidiously popular as anything that arse of a mullet-wearing-cyborg Michael Bay churns out. It’s not like anyone actually goes to see his stuff anyway. In a way, he’s probably acting as a decent weather vane in what to avoid. “Ooh, Dead Cert sounds like a good B-movie horror pic, what with it’s combination of gangsters and vampires.” “Yes, but it has Danny Facking Dyer in it.” “Blimey, better avoid that one, then.” So, in a way, his presence in the industry is a good thing, and anyone who says he’s merely a mockney stereotype cor blimeying his way through every role is only being churlish.