Seen: Control, a film by Anton Corbijn, at Tuschinski, Amsterdam on October 11.
Never having been a Joy Division fan and only really appreciating their music in hindsight - for a few shameful months in the early 80’s I claimed to prefer Paul Young’s cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart over the original - , my main reason to see the film Control was its director. It’s safe to say I’m not going to be entirely objective in my opinion of the film. Corbijn’s the only Dutch hero I have and you’re not going to find me slagging off his work. Thankfully, I don’t have to. Control may well be his best snapshot.
I knew the basics of Joy Division and Curtis’s story: the epilepsy, the way he moved on stage, the suicide. I put him firmly in the ‘tortured soul’ (and thus sympathetic) department of the ‘dead icons’ warehouse in my mind.
Halfway through the film, my opinion of Curtis changed. I’ve never had much sympathy for kids stupid enough to marry in their teens or manchildren who cheat on their wives.
‘Twat,’ I thought as Curtis rings the wife to tell her he’s finished it with his Belgian paramour, then stumbles straight back into the other woman’s arms. ‘Idiots,’ I thought, as his manager and fellow band members put him back on stage straight after his first attempted suicide. ‘Fuck off and die,’ I thought as the terribly twee ‘Annik’ kept coming back for more supposedly deep and meaningful conversation, the sneaking around condoned and abetted by the likes of Tony Wilson. God rest his soul, but… ‘Wanker!’
Meanwhile I’m practically salivating over the stark cinematography of the film. Given Corbijn’s visionary photography, this was always going to be a good looking movie. Still, I think he surpassed himself by toning down the romanticism so prevalent in his photographs; omitting the more baroque influences on his style: the religious and erotic imagery you’ll be familiar with through his work with Depeche Mode in particular. In Control, Corbijn finds a painful, sparse beauty in grey, the predominant colour of Thatcherite Britain, capturing the essence of the era as only a knowledgeable outsider can. Every single shot in this film is a work of art, substance winning out over style throughout.
Corbijn - a photographer who really wanted to be a drummer - makes the ‘concert’ parts of the film look real. Hyper real. This isn’t what it’s like being at a concert, this is what it feels like to be at and play a concert. The sound during the concert scenes has a real punch too. Having the
actors play their instruments for real was a really smart move by the ‘first time’ director. His tracking shots of a rapturous audience are spot on: the anonymous strangers lost in their own worlds, the childlike gazes of your bestest fans, the one familiar face that’s there for you, time not running quite the way it should… Again, Corbijn is the knowledgeable outsider, drawing from his experience with musicians and their craft.
Anton Corbijn and Pimm Jal de la Parra, 1989
Actor Sam Riley looks the part and does a great job most of the time, especially on stage and in the scenes he plays on his own. He’s less convincing acting off other actors, the formidable Samantha Morton (who plays Debbie Curtis) in particular, but given his character, the clumsiness works in his favour. The supporting cast is excellent, particularly the light relief provided by Toby Kebbell as the band’s manager Rob Gretton and the two young actors playing Hooky and Barney.
Various reviews have made mention of the other movie set in the era, 24 hour party people, some claiming the earlier film superior, preferring its Winterbottom’s exuberance over Corbijn’s stark view. I think Winterbottom’s film is myth-making, somewhat glorifying, while Corbijn’s vision demystifies and humanises Joy Division’s story.
The final stages of the film are harrowing despite knowing the outcome in advance. For those of us who have lost loved ones in similar circumstances, these kind of images really are too close for comfort. Thankfully, Corbijn pulls back from his subject, granting Curtis privacy in his final moments. The last frame of the movie informs you he was 23 years old when he died.
Twenty-three. That’s when it hits home. Young enough to only see black and white, not old enough to know better. Young enough to be forgiven for his twattiness and philandering. What a waste.
The day after, I stick on Control’s soundtrack and burst into tears.
