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Scum (TV 1977) 

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0200095/

The story of the TV version of Scum is well known in the British film and TV industry. Written by Roy Minton and directed by Alan Clarke, the project had been green-lighted as part of the prestigious Play for Today series by BBC1 controller Brian Cowgill, but following his departure and replacement with the more cautiously minded Billy Cotton, problems arose. Cuts were requested, Home Office and Prison officials were called in to view it, and the decision was made that the film should not be transmitted. Despite having been already advertised, Scum was pulled from the schedules and remained a banned work for the next fourteen years, and even then only received a single screening on rival station Channel 4, where it was introduced by Made in Britain writer David Leland as part of a season of programmes paying tribute to Alan Clarke, who had died a year earlier. Despite this sizeable initial setback, Clarke and Minton refused to give up on the project, and two years later re-shot the film on 35mm for a cinema release. The resulting work became one of the most successful British films of the year, and one that to this day remains an powerful and iconic work.
  
Ray Winstone  ...  Carlin (as Raymond Winstone)  
  Mick Ford  ...  Archer  
  Martin Phillips  ...  Davis  
  Davidson Knight  ...  Angel  
  John Blundell  ...  Banks  
  Phil Daniels  ...  Richards  
  Ray Burdis  ...  Eckersley  
  Patrick Murray  ...  Dougan  
  Ian Sharrock  ...  Rhodes  
  Tony London  ...  Woods  
  Peter Kinley  ...  Betts  
  Sheridan Earl Russell  ...  Jackson  
  Colin Mayes  ...  Sumner  
  Trevor Butler  ...  Toyne  
  Philip DaCosta  ...  Formby (as Philip Da Costa)  

Most of those coming to the original version of Scum have already become familiar with the feature film version. This brings baggage to the viewing that is unfair and unfortunate. To fully appreciate the original's qualities it is important to put that aside, and to cart yourself back to the 1970s and imagine just what would have happened if you had tuned in at 9.25 at night and been presented, completely out of the blue, with this. Had it not been banned, of course.

For the uninitiated, Scum is set in a borstal, a word that may mean little to younger viewers, the reason being that the borstal system itself was abolished by The Criminal Justice Act in 1982. Borstals were institutions in which young offenders were incarcerated under a strict regime of harsh discipline, work and education. They were intended to teach their inmates respect for authority, install in them a strong work ethic and build character, but by the 1970s it was becoming clear that in some institutions control was being maintained by a regime of violence, bullying and racism, and that it was being dished out both by staff and inmates alike. Into just such an institution arrive three new unfortunates: tough, street-wise Carlin has been transferred from another borstal after hitting a warder; quiet, introverted Davis ran away from a minimum security establishment; newcomer Angel is black, and unprepared for the racism he is to be subjected to by his white custodians and fellow prisoners. Carlin in particular becomes an immediate focus for attention, his reputation as a 'daddy' – an inmate in an unofficial position of power attained through violence and gangland-style intimidation – having arrived ahead of him, which brings him into immediate conflict with the warders and incumbent daddy Pongo Banks.

The original version of Scum is both more low key and, in some ways, more hesitant than its later feature film brother. Most of the performances lack the extraordinary confidence they have in the film and there are none of the compellingly executed 'walking shots' that were to become a trademark aspect of the director's visual style. But this approach can also be seen as less sensationalist than the film, and creates an intimacy with the characters that is immediately engaging and has a matter-of-fact quality that in some ways makes it seem even more realistic.

The narrative is virtually identical to the feature, as is the dialogue, though here lacks the expletives that are now seen as so central to some of the film's most memorable lines. Individual scenes sometimes unfold differently and there are some location shifts, but those familiar with the feature will be at home here. Where the two do part company a little is in the second half – in this version Carlin plays an increasingly minor narrative role, and in a compelling scene that did not make it into the film (due to Ray Winstone being uncomfortable with it) he takes on a 'missus', a young inmate he keeps around for company and sexual gratification. This leads to a scene also unique to this version in which the increasingly despairing Davis goes to Carlin for advice, but is dismissed out of hand when he feels unable to talk in front of this now ever-present companion. This paints Carlin in a more callous light and makes his own attitude a contributory factor in Davis's eventual suicide and suggests a stronger motivation for Carlin to lead the riot that follows, springing as it does from his anger at himself for allowing this to happen.

As Carlin, Ray Winstone was making his acting debut, but though he lacks the ferocious confidence he displays in the remake, his obvious youth and naturalistic delivery really sell the reality of his character and the situation he finds himself in. This also applies to many of the support roles, whose increased confidence in the feature resulted in part from having a second shot at the same part, something almost every actor must have wanted at one time or another. That character that differs most noticeably between two films is without doubt Archer, the cynical intellectual that Carlin befriends and the mouthpiece for Roy Minton's own views on the situation. Played to scene-stealing perfection by Mick Ford in the remake, the interpretation here by David Threlfall is very different, less animated and lacking the cocky world-weariness that Ford made central to his interpretation. Threlfall, however, is just as fascinating in his way, and certainly is less of a sore thumb standout in this particularly institution than Archer #2. (Threlfall was to really prove his worth five years later with his heart-breaking performance as Smike in the Royal Shakespeare Company's production of Nicholas Nickleby.)

Initially it's Carlin who drives the narrative, the beatings and humiliation he endures leading to the inevitable but still hugely cathartic scene in which he takes out Pongo and his boys and establishes himself as the new power on the block. His position is consolidated when he defeats Baldy, the intimidating black boss of B wing, by swinging a weapon in a fight his opponent was under the impression would be settled with fists. It's in this scene, as in the earlier one in which Angel is beaten by Pongo and then given a nasty dressing-down by a warder, that the nature of the racism employed by many of the white characters is most clearly illustrated – far from being an expression of genuine racial hatred, it is used as yet another method of control, a bullying put-down used to belittle and humiliate. That it is so direct will no doubt cause some newcomers to the story to balk a little at these scenes, but it never feels gratuitous, even at its most unpleasant.

As the film builds, simmers and finally explodes, the viewer is left with the image of a system that does not strengthen character nor install respect for authority, but brutalises and destroys, takes young men who have broken the rules and moulds them into hardened criminals. If the TV original never quite captures the electrifying power of the feature version, then this is only right – the demands and expectations of a cinema feature are different to that of a TV play, and it's a sign of the screenplay's strength that no significant changes had to be made to story, character or (toughening up aside) dialogue. As a work of its time, a TV play made for screening on a mainstream TV channel, Scum is an astonishing achievement. That it was banned and buried by the people who should have been celebrating this is scandalous, but that there is nothing being produced by any UK TV channel now that comes even halfway close to matching the film's boldness, ambition and commitment, is ultimately depressing.