In a desperate attempt to elicit even a tepid reception from the assembled critics, beleaguered press representatives propping up ‘Anuvahood’ were quietly distributing press kits, the contents of which wouldn’t have been out of place at a product launch: a novelty bottle of Levi Root’s ‘Anuva Nuva’ jerk sauce rubbed shoulders with a giant Chupa-Chups and some Fruit-tellas completed the edibles.
Curiously, the only trace of ‘Anuvahood’ was the press notes, a page of promotional stickers and a loud t-shirt bearing the slogan “It’s a BADMAN SWEET! You get me?” adjacent to the image of a packet of the aforementioned Fruit-tellas, the film’s logo banished to the reverse side. It’s uncertain whether the marketing department thought they were pre-empting the popularity of one of the lead character’s most annoying ‘catchphrases’ or Fruit-tella’s own in-house division have run out of ideas. In either case, it’s emblematic of how tired the remaining dialogue is, with a character lucky to escape a sentence without having sworn or been vulgar in some other capacity.
The reason the press kit merits deeper analysis is partly because it’s a more rewarding critical exercise than deconstructing the abominable ‘Anuvahood’ itself. Aside from that, it also offers a conveniently vivid illustration of its inherent flaws and why it easily counts as one of the most irritating and embarrassing British films to emerge in cinemas since its antecedents ‘Kevin & Perry Go Large’ (2000) and ‘Ali G Indahouse’ (2002) tarnished celluloid.
Unlike those two films, ‘Anuvahood’ arrives without a fan base, though its central premise does rely on a familiarity of sorts, namely a cultural awareness of gang ridden council estate dramas set in south-east London; a confined genre monopolised largely by Noel Clarke, hence the punning title.
The ‘plot’ revolves around Kenneth (Adam Deacon), a virginal MC who has recently quit his job at Laimsbury’s (groan), a caricature not wholly unlike Sacha Baron Cohen’s black wannabe creation, sporting similar aspirations to smoke marijuana incessantly and rise to stardom in the rhyme spitting world of garage and drum ‘n’ bass.
There’s a vague plot about trying to defend his family from the sticky fingers of the bailiffs but is otherwise content to wallow in crass, lewd and uninspired humour, the occasional homophobic gag thrown in for good measure. In comedic terms, it is a black hole of laughter, suffocating your will to live let alone titter along with such dross.
Co-directed by Deacon and fellow ingrate Daniel Toland, the resulting headache defies the notion that two heads are better than one, though it does at least present the glimmer of an opportunity to smash their skulls against one another. It’s a collaboration that shouldn’t be encouraged to repeat itself any time soon and should lead to their being blacklisted from the industry.