Control review

In the 27 years since Joy Division's singer Ian Curtis killed himself on the eve of the band's first US tour, the mystique surrounding the group and its enigmatic frontman has continued to grow. There is a rapidly expanding library of books on Curtis and the group who produced just three albums. There was also the exuberant movie 24 Hour Party People which, in its depiction of the Manchester music scene, included elements of Joy Division's story. Now, ahead of an upcoming documentary on the band, comes Control, the biopic of Curtis' brief life. For hardened fans of the group, Control is an exasperating missed opportunity. For those less familiar with the band, but curious to learn more about why they have become so revered, Control provides little evidence.

Based on Touching From A Distance, Deborah Curtis' book about her husband, Control is more a 1960s kitchen sink drama than it is the study of a musical icon. This evocative approach is augmented by the film's gritty Manchester setting and Martin Huhe's black and white cinematography, which bears all the familiar hallmarks of director Anton Corbijn's sumptuous work. Considering the young couple's marital problems and Ian Curtis' very public affair, Deborah Curtis doesn't share the idolatry view of her husband held by others. Although her vantage point provides all the requisite ingredients for a turbulent domestic story, it sheds little light on the group, their music or the man capable of producing such intense, sophisticated and eloquent lyrics.

All heroes are flawed. It's important to remember that when providing an objective, informed work about them, but to focus so much of Control on Curtis' human frailties and offer little understanding of what it was that made him extraordinary is negligent and irresponsible. In addition to the book that inspired the film, Deborah Curtis is also a producer. That Samantha Morton, who portrays her, was the first name in the end credits says much about whose story this really is. The film's title might equally allude to Deborah Curtis' administration of her husband's legacy.

From its homoerotic beginnings, with a teenage Curtis posturing topless in the mirror, Control takes, ill-defined steps through the seven years leading up to his death at the age of 23. Scant reference is made to the group's evolution. The film bypasses their larva and pupa stages and introduces them as a fully-formed majestic and forceful butterfly. Sam Riley brilliantly embodies the brooding, insularity of Curtis. He delivers Curtis' flailing, maniacal dance and rolling eyes with unerring verity. Along with band members Peter Hook (Joe Anderson), Bernard Sumner (James Anthony Pearson) and Stephen Morris (Harry Treadaway), they do faithful and accomplished renditions of Joy Division's material.

Greenhalgh's script plots a confusing route through proceedings, using clunky dialogue and glaring foreshadowing. Corbijn's imprimatur is all over every striking and stark frame. Macclesfield has never looked so picturesque. Contrasting with the film's overarching somber tone are genuine moments of humour, the majority of which are provided by the band's irrepressible and blunt manager Rob Gretton (Toby Kebbell) and record label boss Tony Wilson (Craig Parkinson).

As someone who followed the band religiously and had occasion to meet Curtis, I wasn't looking to Control to unveil anything I didn't already know. I'd read Deborah Curtis' book and every other one on the group. I was well aware of how Ian Curtis was a man struggling to reconcile his burgeoning fame with his epilepsy, new parental role, disintegrating domestic situation and his illicit affair. Control touches on these issues that contributed to his suicide, but without ever getting below the surface. Curtis and Joy Division were the antithesis of superficial. They have been embraced by generations of angst-ridden youths because they took you on a voyage to the very depths of your emotions. It's not a journey Control ever inspires.

Kevin Murphy