This week I've been fortunate to see an early showing of "Fire in Babylon" at the BFI London Film Festival. From the same director as the acclaimed "Blue Blood" it charts the rise and rise of the Windies side of the mid-70s, from being humbled by that urbane Aussie housewife Lilian Thomson to dishing it out to the "fat Botham" England side of the mid-80s, culminating in the famous "Blackwash" of 1984.
Whilst not wanting to slip into Pretentious Film Journo mode (I'll leave that to the J-Rod, except he actually knows what he's gassing on about), it's an enjoyable if not great film. It does its best to be a "When We Were Kings" for cricket by placing King Viv on a pedestal. The former worked as Ali had the superhuman, unbeatable Forman to rail against; I felt Babylon suffered as Sir Vivian never had a comparable figure to joust. Great craftsman though Lillee became in the late 70s, he was no longer the terror of the early 70s; Thommo burnt out brightly in the mid-70s, injuries taking their inevitable toll on the human trebuchet. Willis? Worthy, mercurial but not a great. Oh, and there's not enough funk. Or the Fugees.
So you leave the cinema with a slight longing for more. There are a few too many talking heads with too little to say. A Jamaican groundsman a George Plimpton doth not make, amusing though their asides are. There isn't enough focus on the sheer terror batsmen must have felt tackling hour after hour of express pace with little more than a toothpick for a bat and a felt cap for the noggin. South Africa is quickly brushed aside and the decline of the Windies empire from the mid-90s not mentioned. An outsider might leave the cinema thinking that Barbados, Jamaica, Guyana and Trinidad still ruled the world. Sadly they do not and we're poorer for it.
But here's hoping for a general release. There's plenty of great, great bowling - a feast given the drought in the world game over the last few years. You can enjoy the sight of Robin Marlar being given enough rope to hang himself - oh, sweet, sweet bliss. There's Viv of course, magisterial as ever, Clive, Colin, Andy R and Derryk Murray. And plenty of Michael Holding's syrupy tones. It's funny how things change. The man once famous for drop kicking a set of stumps to Auckland and back is now the conscience of the Caribbean game. Poacher, gamekeeper.
Leaving the theatre I was struck by the demographic of the audience. The vast majority of the audience were men of a certain age and overwhelmingly white. Admittedly it was midweek and late afternoon, not the usual cinema crowd. But here they were, as the credits rolled, on their feet, saluting the heroes of the last 80 mins. You wouldn't have bet on that happening 30 years ago, now would you? God, don't you wish those times were on us again?