Why I'd like to be … Bob Hoskins in The Long Good Friday
Shuffling from guest to guest on the deck of his extravagant yacht, Harry Shand exudes charm and confidence. "I'm not a politician; I'm a businessman with a sense of history," he says. But he's more than that: he's a leader, a man with vision. He's an innovator with the run of the docks and a clear view of the future. He's ambitious, charismatic, uncompromising. He's the king of the East End. For me, this rugged Cockney geezer is the ultimate working-class antihero.
Sipping Bloody Marys in the glare of the sleeping Docklands, as if on the banks of the French Riviera, Harry shows that he's a man of ideas. With Tower Bridge looming overhead, he explains to a party of "true friends" and business associates his plans to steamroll London into the next decade and a new age of prosperity. He wants to renovate the landscape and revitalise the capital's spirit. He's got local pride and noble intent. Of course, he's a gangster, too; a villain of the highest order.
"No other city in the world has got right in its centre such an opportunity for profitable progress," he bellows, passionately – all warmth and promise. Then the phone rings. Informed that a bomb at his mother's church has killed one of his cronies, the pigeon-chested ruffian crushes a glass with one hand and barks at his men to find the chump responsible. "I'll have his carcass dripping blood by midnight," he growls, sucking at a gash on his thumb. Now that's authority.
John Mackenzie's film came from an extraordinary script by Barrie Keeffe, a screenwriter who started out as a journalist. Capturing a moment of economic flux, Keeffe eerily predicted a time in which the Docklands were revised and rebuilt. Bob Hoskins, in the role of his life, was the face of a new London – gorging on some of British cinema's most memorable monologues.
I understand it might seem strange to outwardly idolise such a quintessential image of early Thatcherism, to revere a violent premonition of grand-scale local government corruption. But to be honest, I'm not after the whole package. I'm not at all interested in the politics, the then new-right associations. I don't want the responsibility of running a firm – or a "corporation". The idea of hanging an adversary topsy-turvy from a meat hook is completely abhorrent to me. But this is precisely my problem: I can't commit. I'm neither here nor there. I hardly ever see anything through.
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The type of kid who tried his hand at everything, growing up I stuck at nothing. I quit rugby when I was 15 because of the cold. I packed in cricket at 17 to free up my weekends for band practice – I've not learned a new song on the guitar since university. Shand, on the other hand, never falters. He refuses to stray from his chosen path, even when he learns that it's not just some rival crook with bad blood on his trail, but the full-blown force of the IRA.
Bombs are going off around him, his empire is crumbling and his best mate has been butchered by Pierce Brosnan in the local swimming baths. To top it all, he has to keep a cool head for two American Mafia representatives interested in part-funding his real-estate project. Not one to flinch in the face of a fight, he takes the situation by the scruff of the neck and issues a truly explosive response. If he's going out, he's sure as hell going out with a bang. It's worth remembering we're watching his downfall; imagine him on the way up.
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I myself am not one for confrontation. I often leave the site of even the tamest debate feeling flustered, dwelling on the things I wish I'd said. Harry has no such trouble. In an iconic scene, with the deal out the window, he gives his transatlantic counterparts the rough edge of the British bulldog's tongue. "What I'm looking for is someone who can contribute to what England has given to the world: culture, sophistication, genius. A little bit more than an 'ot dog, know what I mean?"
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