Withnail and I: Story without Story?

The most wonderful thing about storytelling is – one size does not fit all. What may very well be golden to me, can be legitimate garbage to you, and visa versa. What is more unusual, but nonetheless wonderful, is the rare story that contains or involves no discernible story at all.

My favourite example of this is Withnail & I. My beloved and learned friend Ken Harmon would have strongly argued that My Dinner With Andre is the supreme gold standard in this particular, niche category. But our arguments over this fact were always good-natured and enjoyable to the point that we were basically debating the merits and superiority of Beethoven’s Ninth over Mozart’s requiem.

Withnail & I was written and directed by the majestic Bruce Robinson. It was produced by Handmade Films, the upstart company founded by the quiet Beatle George Harrison, a bold endeavour that brought about the existence of Monty Python’s seminal Holy Grail, Life of Brian, not to mention stonewall cult classics such as Time Bandits, Mona Lisa and The Long Good Friday. The less said about Shanghai Surprise the better. But hey, at least Hollywood’s hottest young married couple Sean Penn and Madonna got to hang out at work and on set for eleven glorious weeks!

Withnail is the perfect example of the sublime story without story. If you are unfamiliar, allow me to furnish you with the basic plot points. Two (not so) young and destitute actors are living in squalor in Camden Town, London, at the tail end of 1969. They are fuelled by booze, prescribed chemicals, a magnificent sense of self-importance and a severe lack of acting work. I (otherwise known as Marwood – but never referred to by that name in the movie), played by Paul McGann, suggests to his flat mate Withnail, brought to iconic life by the incomparable Richard E Grant, that they should go on holiday in the countryside and ‘rejuvenate.’ The key to securing this rural escape is them borrowing the Penrith adjacent cottage owned by Withnail’s eccentric Uncle Monty – portrayed in a high theatrical style and scene-stealing fashion by the darling Richard Griffiths.

Our heroes get the key. They drive through a thunderstorm and arrive at the cottage, which makes their rathole of a flat back in Camden Town look like a presidential suite at the Savoy. While holidaying by mistake in Penrith, the boys tussle with a loose bull, incur the wrath of Jake the poacher and terrorise a group of old ladies and a retired major enjoying their afternoon tea with their boozy stench and unapologetic profanity. Uncle Monty turns up out of the blue. He tries and fails to seduce I. Withnail gets ever more drunk, gorged and morose. I gets word about an acting job and the pair return to London. Danny the drug dealer turns up and rolls the biggest joint in cinematic history. I lands his dream acting job and the movie ends with him moving out of their shared flat and Withnail’s abortive attempt to walk him to the train station. Topped off, in the pouring rain, as Withnail delivers the famous ‘what a piece of work is man’ monologue from Hamlet to a grouped of caged and disinterested looking wolves in London Zoo.

The idea of someone pitching that story to a major film studio in this day and age and not being forcefully ejected from the premises by armed security is laughable. Nothing happens in it. Nothing changes. No one learns or grows or overcomes a goddamn thing.

Not true.

NOT TRUE FOR A SECOND.

The reason this movie has endured and grown as a stonewall cult classic for the last 38 years is down to the beautiful and deeply sad story that lies beneath the surface of the scarce plot points. It is the end of a friendship. A sexless marriage. But most striking of all, a co-dependent relationship where both parties reinforce and normalise their multitude of addictions and failings. It all comes into focus when I lands his coveted acting job. He discards his filthy and drugged out appearance, dons sharp new clothes and sports a short and respectable haircut – worn only by squares. Withnail remains the filthy and unkempt wretch he has been throughout their rural odyssey. When he insists on walking I to the train station, and I does all that he can to gently dissuade him, you realise the heartbreaking truth of the matter. I is going to make it. His life has promise and a potentially bright future. Withnail is doomed to flounder in the excess of drugs, alcohol and excuses that have mired him for years and caused the maddening refrain inside his head, over and over again, why can’t I play the part? 

In essence, as these two companions part ways, one approaches heaven while the other lingers in hell. One marches on into life while the other faces the fact he is as good as dead. The long-winded point I am trying to make (or reiterate) is that, in storytelling terms, sometimes nothing has to happen for EVERYTHING to happen. Or, conversely, sometimes lots of stuff may appear to be happening, when nothing of consequence or emotional bearing has taken place at all.

One size does not fit all.

My gold, your garbage?

Fair enough, it takes all sorts.