In an astonishingly versatile career that has lasted nearly two decades, British filmmaker Michael
Winterbottom has turned his hand to an astonishing amount of challenging and diverse output.
His work has strayed from fiction to factual, between comedy and drama and from light froth
to storms of controversy. His new film marks the fourth collaboration with comedian Steve
Coogan, their most notable so far being 24 Hour Party People, an excellent account of the
Manchester music scene of the late 70’s and early 80’s. Their subject matter this time around
is Paul Raymond, ‘The King Of Soho’, a notorious figure of the British media who starting in
the late 50’s built an empire from his ‘gentleman’s clubs’, pornography publications and real
estate properties to become the richest man in Britain, broke many taboos of the post-war era and
led an extravagant lifestyle both in and out of the public spotlight. Such a divisive and colorful
character seems almost tailor made for a tell all, illuminating biopic; a modern day King Midas
story. Citizen Kane by way of Boogie Nights if you will.
Soho, 1958: Paul Raymond (Coogan) along with his wife Jean (Anna Friel) open their
first ‘gentlemen’s club’ which allow it’s patrons access to displays of sexuality previously
unavailable due to British law. As the years pass, Raymond invests in multiple properties and
starts his own magazine publications which quickly make him one of the country’s wealthiest
men. However his rise to the top is littered with adversity and tragedy shown through the prism
of the other two key women in his life; Fiona Richmond (Tamsin Egerton), cover girl and
journalist for his Men Only Magazine and Debbie Raymond (Imogen Poots), his utterly devoted
and loving daughter who was destined to take over his empire.
Raymond’s excessive and colorful lifestyle was no secret to the public at large; he had an
uncanny knowledge of PR and treated his name like a brand. The Look Of Love certainly
succeeds at portraying this lavish and sordid empire in terrific detail. Costume and set designs
are beautifully rendered across the decades that the story spans and it’s quite remarkable that
with a fairly modest budget at the filmmakers disposal, the streets are Soho are convincingly
transformed to their period look. Cinematographer Hubert Taczanowski conjures up a stunning
look for the film. The early 50’s set monochrome sequences morph into a lurid, enticing color
scheme that practically drips off the screen and replicates the grainy film stock feel of the era
that thankfully doesn’t feel forced although a number of flashy edits and montage sequences feel
a tad overdone. Unfortunately it’s in discussing the brilliant visual aesthetic of the film that you
can’t help but notice it coming up shorthand in the emotional department.
Raymond’s life was not without it’s moments of heartbreak and tragedy and the film doesn’t
shy away from them. The problem is that for the majority of its running time it assumes the
veil of a bawdy, knockabout comedy breezing through the darker and more dubious aspects
of Raymond’s career without much time to absorb the morality or the lack of it. A scene
where he faces allegations that one of his clubs is being operated as a brothel is quite literally
blink and you miss it, as though the filmmakers are worried that you may start to dislike
this man. Montages whip past in a blur stopping to name drop many important events and
accomplishments of Raymond’s eventful life yet we rarely get any heft or scope of these events.
At it’s worst it almost resembles a live action Wikipedia biography page. It’s understandable that
the filmmakers would want to market the film to the widest possible audience by keeping the
appeal broad and the laughs coming. It’s certainly not without it’s funny moments and they are
their best when dark and scathing. The sight of Raymond giving his daughter a line of cocaine
to help her through labour elicits gasps and guffaws in equal measure. Yet the film revels in it’s
comic background to a sometimes overbearing degree. Cameos from the likes of Stephen Fry,
Dara O’Briain David Walliams and Matt Lucas (in a an uncanny portrayal of John Water’s
muse Divine) are distracting and many of them far too fleeting to have any major impact on the
narrative.
Then there is Coogan himself in the central role of Raymond. Coogan is an undeniable talent
and it can be a pleasure to see comedic actors broaden their range with more straight faced
fare. However as talented a performer as he is Coogan feels miscast in the role. One of the
key problems is that the spectre of his most famous creation, appalling self centred Norfolk
based DJ Alan Partridge, hangs over the performance. Many of Coogan’s mannerisms and
vocal inflections skirt very close to that of Partridge (look out for the scene where he coaches
his dancers through their moves) and it can’t help but pull you further out of the world the
filmmaker’s are clearly working very hard to create. It seems almost churlish to criticise Coogan
for being the gifted comic actor that he is but here the pitch of the performance jars badly, the
character is played so much for laughs that when we step into his darker moments there’s a
distinct lack of empathy. Fortunately many of the supporting performances raise the films game,
most notably from the trio of actresses who play the women of Raymond’s life. Anna Friel is
terrifically steely as Raymond’s first wife; a solid bedrock of support for her husband’s ventures
and she provides one of the genuinely raw moments of drama as their marriage falls apart.
Tamsin Egerton piles on the glamour but is no fool as Raymond’s pin up girlfriend. Imogen
Poots arguably steals the whole thing as Debbie Raymond, pulling off what on paper seems like
a character of contradictions; hedonistic and full of life yet fragile and achingly vulnerable. It’s
the scenes between father and daughter that stick in the mind and hint the most at Raymond’s
softer and more conventional family persona. It’s in these scenes that we perhaps get a clearer
picture of what the film was aiming for before the tone got muddled.
The Look Of Love is certainly no disaster but given Michael Winterbottom’s terrific range
and style this can’t help but feel incredibly conventional, underwhelming and perhaps only as
substantial as one of its protagonist’s glossy publications. A lot of razzle but not enough dazzle.
