Sometimes a film comes along from nowhere, slipping in under the dark and stormy waters of the big screen sea, cruising past the swell of blockbusting supertankers, to rise to the surface as one of the best films of the year. Submarine is such a film, a brilliantly funny and stylistically flourished feature from that autistic guy from The I.T. Crowd. Yes, this is the film debut of Richard Ayoade, better known as his sitcom alter-ego Moss, as well as supporting roles in a host of the coolest cult shows on British TV to boot. In his spare time, Ayoade’s been wracking up quirky music videos for the indiest of indie bands on the music scene, and here, he finally gets to explode onto the big screen, depth charging your heart with the cleverest film you’ve ever seen about a 15 year-old boy losing his virginity.
The story, based on the Joe Duntorne’s novel of the same name, follows schoolboy Oliver Tate, an eccentric in a duffle coat, whose musings on the world, and Swansea’s industrial estates, reveal him to be dour and calculating, yet hopeful and extremely funny. With his shanks of dark hair and sly smile, newcomer Craig Roberts is brilliant as Tate, anchoring his precocious intelligence with humility and excellent comic timing. His Tate is a cross between Amélie Poulain and Harold of Harold & Maude, a worldweary oddball out to make things better.
To do this, Tate sets his sights on two goals; winning enigmatic classmate Jordana, a plump bully with occasional eczema and a Sally Bowles bob, as his girlfriend, and saving his parent’s marriage from the dangers of the new ageist hippy/ex-boyfriend of his mother who’s just moved in next door. What sounds drearily Disney is actually a black-tinged script with daring honesty and searingly astute observations on how we begin and end our relationships. Oliver is no Pollyanna, ritually planning out his moves with stalker-like intent and intensity. For example, to win Jordana’s heart, he figures he should raise his bad boy profile by engaging in some merciless teasing and physical abuse of the only girl he’s ever kissed. The fact that we still like him is a testament to Ayoade’s adaptation of the script and his skillful direction.
All the performances are excellent, from rising stars Roberts and Yasmin Paige as Jordana (a veritable sex-kitten in a gym slip), to Sally Hawkins as the straight-laced mother to a son she doesn’t understand, doesn’t seem to like, but whom she has to love. Noah Taylor is delightfully deadpan as Oliver’s marine biologist father, and Paddy Considine works his leather pants to great effect as the lamest love threat to sport a mullet you’ve ever seen.
But above all, this film belongs to its director, who is reminiscent of early Wes Anderson and Jean Pierre Jeunet, but thankfully dodging the pretention. Ayoade has created a brilliant visual style, with flashes of colour and enough paisley panache to evoke the 70s without resorting to seen-it-a-million-times-before staples. He also ties the film together with vignettes of Super 8 home video and grainy 70s editing, and several simple camera tricks – crane shots and particularly a freeze frame with conscious characters – are used to great effect. These give the film a tremendous energy that helps to stop it slipping into whimsical territory, and while it may lose some of its momentum in its final chapter, Submarine has more than enough inventiveness, laughs, heart and sheer bite to win you over, hook, line and sinker.
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