There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed.
Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.
On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble.
I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career.
George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him."
The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.
In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.
Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.
After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.
If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him.
It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.
People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. Jeremy Corbyn's success is a direct reaction to this.
This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.
