Let the Little Boy Dance
by Don Larsson

One of the wonders of a certain strain in current British cinema
is its ability to root comedy and pathos in the hard social and
economic realities of contemporary life. Directors like Ken Loach and Mike Leigh have been at this kind of thing for a while, but they don't own the franchise, as The Full Monty proved. BILLY ELLIOT is the test case this year.

Billy is a boy who seems doomed to growing up without hope in a coal town in northern England. His mother dead, his father and brother embittered by a never-ending strike against Mrs. Thatcher, Billy doesn't even have the hope of physical bravado to carry him along in the community. When he takes boxing lessons at a local gym, he's hopeless until he sees and is intrigued by the ballet class taking place in the same building. Soon he is sneaking off to dance practice, pretending that his fifty pence are still going for boxing. Eventually, though, his family finds out and he has to come against their prejudices.

Much of this story can be, and is, the stuff of light comedy: a boy's coming of age and very slow sexual awakening; the awkward teenaged arms and legs; the suspense of keeping secrets. But, even more than The Full Monty, the emotions cut deep. The motherless family's pain is palpable, the secret of one of Billy's friends is a dangerous one, the sense of hopelessness can almost be smelt. And the emotional rescue, trite as it sounds, is through dance - the set piece of the film is no classical tour de force but a drama of feeling acted out with a body moving in space.

A great deal of the credit for the film's success goes to Jamie Bell, who is on-point perfect in his gradual growth as a dancer, and whose face is a fascinating mixture of childishness and maturity, of ecstasy and pending bitterness. His teacher, Julie Walters, herself matured from the young scholar of Educating Rita, also shines as a woman who knows talent and why it should be nurtured when it is found. And Stephen Daldry, with able help from cinematographer Brian Tufano and editor John Wilson, creates jetees of time and space, touching down so lightly that you hardly notice the changes.

There are some parts that don't work as well. It's never quite clear if the dotty old grandmother is supposed to be more an object of comedy or sympathy. Nonetheless, Billy Elliot ought to be an object lesson for every filmmaker who hopes to glam things up with big-name stars.

CineScene, 2000