The Crying Game

Neil Jordan’s The Crying Game is a good thriller made better by its willingness to spend time on people who cannot explain themselves. As writer and director, Jordan brings political loyalty into uncomfortable contact with desire, then allows the feelings to become complicated enough to inconvenience the story. We recommend it, with some patience for the plotting that occasionally takes over. The strongest reason to stay is Stephen Rea’s Fergus, whose uncertainty makes the danger feel personal.

Rea makes Fergus’s reluctance to express himself absorbing, giving us the sense that speaking plainly could cost him more than he is prepared to pay. We were moved by Rea’s face, by the way Fergus appears to weigh an answer before offering it. There is enough warmth in the performance to stop all that hesitation becoming merely evasive. It is a demanding way to hold the centre of a thriller, and Rea allows Fergus to seem doubtful without draining the scenes of tension.

Jaye Davidson’s Dil makes a different impression: direct enough to unsettle a film whose central man is so guarded. Davidson gives the romantic material a welcome firmness, preventing tenderness from turning into a general invitation to feel sorry for everyone. Forest Whitaker, as Jody, helps establish the human interest that allows Jordan to move beyond the political thriller’s usual contest of opposing sides. These performances remain persuasive when the screenplay starts drawing attention to its own cleverness.

Ian Wilson’s cinematography gives Rea’s face the attention it needs, allowing small uncertainties to hold our interest. Jim Clay’s production design is persuasive on the scale that matters here: people sharing space and struggling to feel at ease together. The surroundings do not compete insistently with the actors, which helps a story already carrying plenty of complications. Anne Dudley’s music is more inclined to underline the feeling, and there are moments when we would prefer to be left with the performance.

The weakness is Jordan’s fondness for arranging a surprise when a conversation might be more revealing. Kant Pan’s editing keeps the changes of direction moving briskly, but pace cannot make every change feel equally natural. Occasionally we become conscious of the script deciding what to withhold, and interest in the people has to wait while it makes its arrangements. The film recovers because Rea and Davidson give us something worth returning to, though we would gladly exchange some clever plotting for more time in their company.

The politics are handled most convincingly at the level of personal loyalty. Jordan is interested in what a commitment requires of somebody once it stops being easy, and in whether affection can survive that pressure. That gives the violence a purpose beyond providing another difficulty for the central character, although the film is less searching about political belief itself. Anyone looking for a full account of the conflict behind the story should adjust that expectation.

The 18 certificate is worth taking seriously, and this is not a choice for an evening when everyone wants easy company. At 112 minutes, it asks for concentration without demanding a night be set aside for it. Give the performances room to work, and resist the urge to treat every uncertainty as a clue. See it when a love story with some awkwardness in it sounds more inviting than a comfortable one.