Control

A lot of people are going to cavort over Control. In fact, they already have: it’s picked up a few awards at Cannes, left Edinburgh buzzing, and even had Peter Bradshaw levitating out of his chair. As happens. So Control is a successful movie, by general consent.

But it may be worth pausing for a breather. Because when we are presented with value in the movies, we very rarely turn it in on itself. Instead of putting it through the mill, we tend to hoist the flag, ready the maidens, and praise it until the cows come home. The problem is that – to extend an already shaky metaphor – a few maidens should always be kept in reserve. Bear with me on this one.

Why is Control successful? Well, to start with, Control is successful because it is a film about a man who had an interesting life. This is hardly conjecture – Ian Curtis has remained in the cultural limelight since his death some 30 odd years ago. His story is what lyricist rock and roll aspires to: complete devotion to a cause that understands and somehow subverts the complexities of modern living. And ends in death. Curtis the man captured a finite amount of people, Curtis the story is living on, capturing indefinitely.

Control is also successful because, for a film about Ian Curtis, it pretty much seems to feature Ian Curtis. Sam Riley is so convincing as the afflicted, epileptic wordsmith-singer that disbelief isn’t just suspended – it’s basically dispelled. He has the flying-dagger elbow dance, he has the boyish northern accent, and he has the cavernous, mesmerising singing voice.

Biopics aren’t just about the man however – they are also about the time and the place. And Cobijn’s grasp of the topography is just as realistic. His black and white lens finds a visceral, grimly charming Macclesfield. Every shot is quietly framed with a balanced composition that is not so obviously artful as to detract from the seen events. And his characters duly oblige with their setting – they have even picked up the habit of walking down the middle of the street that is so associated, in my mind, with the films of the time.

The absolute clincher, of course, is the music. It’s post-punk, hypnotically industrial and expressively heartfelt. Joy Division’s sound manages to be at once unbearably claustrophobic and completely, transcendentally ethereal. Just watching Curtis/Riley sweat and stare through the numbers on stage is alone euphoric enough to make Control a triumphant film.

So Control is successful because it tells a good story with great music in a realistic and non-indulgent manner. But nobody seems to have stopped and asked just how very frightening the whole thing is.

By conveying a past event with such precision, Control manages to demythologise a death. ‘This is the story of Ian Curtis’, it says, ‘these are his movements, and this is where they occurred’. Ian Curtis was troubled by very human, very material circumstances: two lovers, one child, a mortgage and a fragile working-class job. Eventually he killed himself.

What Control does, then, is completely and resolutely nail its subject – in a way I have not experienced with any other biopic. Through a portrayal that is on all accounts so life-like, so exacting, the film clones the man instead of representing him. And that is not necessarily a successful attribute – because it can leave its viewer beached. We just may need that sea of possibility, where lies and truth and myth mix over the years to leave a palpitating, alive story.

My point is that the cinema-goer needs space to debate, interpret, or even downright invent. As with the maidens and the milk, we should never concede everything without retaining some bargaining power. Yet that is what Control asks.

So go and see Control: it’s very good. But remain wary– if you leave the cinema basking in its successes, you may have been given too much to grab onto.