Threatened with five law suits, the no-budget Chunky Monkey emerged blinking into the light after four years in litigation hell, boasting the broken but undefeated tagline: "The film corporate giants tried to stop you from seeing." Long story, but the collective might of Unilever (Ben & Jerry's buyers), EMI and the real Julie Andrews, among others, almost finished it off.
Initially, viewers may experience an odd sense of deja vu: this one's been optimistically (if tiresomely) described as "Abigail's Party on acid" because, like Mike Leigh's 1977 film, it is an ensemble piece, limited to a single room, and populated with a bizarre set of freaks and bores. The presence of Alison Steadman, as a nosy neighbour with a menopausal crush on a lounge singer (Mangan), makes the comparison more explicit. The film is also written and directed by a former Leigh alumni, the actor-director Greg Cruttwell, who played the evil yuppie Jeremy in 1993's Naked. But the resemblance ends there.
Unlike Abigail's Party, this is pretty much an all-out farce, lacking the sharp commentary that made Leigh's drama so successful, even sympathetic. "I wanted to write something that amused me," says first-time director Cruttwell. While the cast appears to share his sense of humour, Chunky Monkey can be very self-indulgent - as if there's some private joke from which the viewer is deliberately excluded.
Like the maligned Sex Lives Of The Potato Men, this one's probably best viewed under the influence. However, when it works, it's quite brilliant; at the very least, it ought to serve as a reminder that British comedy doesn't begin and end with Working Title.
A pre-'Shameless' Threlfall is in his element as deranged antihero Donald, ruminating on dairy-based sex acts with all the disinterested curiosity of the true psychopath, or sinking unhappily into himself via his shoulders, like some curious Victorian parlour trick.
As the Second Coming (the afro-sporting Trevor), McFarlane also provides the single most memorable moment, demonstrating his messianic credentials by walking on Donald's bathwater. So gob-smackingly beautiful and strange, it belongs to another film entirely.
Initially, viewers may experience an odd sense of deja vu: this one's been optimistically (if tiresomely) described as "Abigail's Party on acid" because, like Mike Leigh's 1977 film, it is an ensemble piece, limited to a single room, and populated with a bizarre set of freaks and bores. The presence of Alison Steadman, as a nosy neighbour with a menopausal crush on a lounge singer (Mangan), makes the comparison more explicit. The film is also written and directed by a former Leigh alumni, the actor-director Greg Cruttwell, who played the evil yuppie Jeremy in 1993's Naked. But the resemblance ends there.
Unlike Abigail's Party, this is pretty much an all-out farce, lacking the sharp commentary that made Leigh's drama so successful, even sympathetic. "I wanted to write something that amused me," says first-time director Cruttwell. While the cast appears to share his sense of humour, Chunky Monkey can be very self-indulgent - as if there's some private joke from which the viewer is deliberately excluded.
Like the maligned Sex Lives Of The Potato Men, this one's probably best viewed under the influence. However, when it works, it's quite brilliant; at the very least, it ought to serve as a reminder that British comedy doesn't begin and end with Working Title.
A pre-'Shameless' Threlfall is in his element as deranged antihero Donald, ruminating on dairy-based sex acts with all the disinterested curiosity of the true psychopath, or sinking unhappily into himself via his shoulders, like some curious Victorian parlour trick.
As the Second Coming (the afro-sporting Trevor), McFarlane also provides the single most memorable moment, demonstrating his messianic credentials by walking on Donald's bathwater. So gob-smackingly beautiful and strange, it belongs to another film entirely.
