A Bunch of Amaterus review

A Bunch of Amateurs review (directed by Kim Hopkins)

I don’t know West Norwood. I mean, I know it. I knew it was there. But it’s a place I pass through on a bus to the likes of Streatham or croydon, so it was unusual to be there.
I turned up early and did a walk. Because it’s still daylight, and I don’t want meds, and if I don’t want meds, I take a walk.

I come out of the station, and the first thing I see is a book and record and a coffee shop. I walk in, and honestly. It was like the 90’s never left me but just had a mild upgrade.
The books were stacked in some semblance of order, but I had to stare like a stereogram to realize where the horror was. Record boxes had big headings of the genre that needed to be more relevant since the yellowing plastic obscured some titles.

‘Admittedly ‘Somewhere only we know by Keane played over the sound system. On vinyl and with loads of scratches.

I picked up a coffee mug that was on top of Brian Azzarello. Cold coffee at the base of it spilled over my winter coat. I see a cordless phone that tells me this coffee belonged to the bookseller.

I loved this store immediately. I found some books. Because I may not be back, and I want this place to exist. I ring up £10 worth. The Mammoth book of monsters by Stephen Jones covered Bayless Edwards for £4, The Diary of a madman by Guy De Maupassant for £3, and nostalgia fest ‘Spanky’ by Christopher fowler, an early edition with the leather pants and bat-winged male model, the copy I was reading in 6th form. Fuck knows how I survived the standard room with that.

The bookseller took my books as I handed him his coffee and phone. He carefully wrote down their titles on lined paper and needed to find out where the card reader was.

I was taken to the cinema bookstore I went to for my course books. My back pages existed in Balham with a man who never finished his egg sandwich whenever I was there. I was left admiring it and convinced it would not last.

This is where I come onto ‘Bunch of amateurs—a documentary following the down and lie-downs of a destitute film-making club, the Bradford Movie makers.

A society that has effectively been squatting on the landlord’s kindness for the last five years. The Society has not paid rent in the previous years. S a pretty good thing, given it barely has more than £300, £340 to exist when the film starts. A far cry from its reputation as a prestigious club since its formation in 1932.

The film is essentially an ensemble of the club. A group notably made up of older men, with some sense that a club is a place of giving some form to their emotional frustrations and exists as much for a respite from the world as a pursuit.

Harry Nicholls is a leading man in his own right. Admittedly his youth spent fans filming his role as Shazam does have a confident Les Dawson meets Black Adam charm. But his desire to reenact the opening of Oklahoma, as it was the first film he took his wife to, gives a passion to his project that clashes with a specific overbearing manner that is like challenging the tide.

Much as Harry cares for his wife, Philip Wainman is almost the ‘angry young man of the club, single and with care duties of his own regarding his family. The two are at odds when it comes to using special effects. Not so a man could fly, but simply so he could be on a horse.

While the most diametrically placed at the ends of the spectrum, Colin is truly the club’s lifeblood, and it soon becomes apparent at 91 clubs the lifeblood for him. Considerate, dignified, and resolute to the point of stubbornness at times. He nevertheless drives so much of the theme while the building crumbles around him. It gives a specific figure that could not be more animated and sincere if Raymond Briggs drew him.

While there are different veins in the film, the Oklahoma theme runs as the movie’s spine with a great conclusion. There is little that changes within the year. Marie McCharey tries to fundraise and inject proactive passion for sustaining the club. But it does feel somewhat upended by the men’s ‘shed’ mentality where things like electricity and publicity should just come and not be a distraction from making films.

Society is a place of solid character and rude behavior. Still, with such little momentum, outside of the kitchen sink portraits and raw intimacy it does bring to the screen, it can be challenging with’s like a bar that has pints of bitter and a glass of shiraz and rose e for the ladies but asks for a pint of mild, blank glares.

There are sweet moments, and the sparring and Banta have a certain warmth, albeit of the variety of gallows. But Kim Hopkins’s stylized approach, particularly with the soundtrack, may leave some feeling a little ‘Brassed off.’

You feel for the people and their passion for their film home as they attempt to DIY. But by the film’s end, the ending is a rather abrupt turn of events like a gift to turn feels like a gift camera off on a high.

It’s a warming film that does not shy from hardships and is about having a goal more important than achievement. But for many, the darker tones may be too raw, and the film would be paced better by being more truncated.

As I went back after the film. Thinking of the men I saw and how they reminded me of my time in a role-play society inside a prison canteen. Or the buffy club I attended once. And how they create connections, good and bad, for all involved. I was on my platform for the train. I saw the bookshop used to be a pub, books, and records at the gypsy queen. There was a flat above. A nice kitchen, I could see. Very neat. And a decent bathroom. And I thought about how that life. The bookseller was living. 20 years ago. It was a norm. And I could have lived happily.

So support this film and let colin see his next ten years being alive through cinema. You won’t regret it.