Movie Review: Green Street Hooligans

Most Harvard kids suck. At least according to “Green Street Hooligans.”

The prototypical example of a student has a name like Jeremy Van Holden. His father holds an unspecified but important government position, so he’ll be set up with a cushy job right after graduation, but he still deals massive amounts of cocaine out of his double.

This is the situation in which Harvard senior Matt Buckner (Elijah Wood), who is also a Crimson editor, finds himself in “Green Street Hooligans”-Jeremy’s stash is discovered in his closet, leading to his expulsion two months before graduating with a journalism degree (you know, from our prestigious Journalism department).

Isn’t that annoying? Doesn’t it make you want to just run off and become a soccer hooligan?

Well, that’s Matt’s narrative path. Matt is kicked to the curb with some hush money (before the opening credits, so don’t get too excited about seeing Harvard onscreen—it’s there, but for less than ten minutes), and heads toward the home of his London-dwelling sister and her English husband.

Almost immediately upon arriving, Matt’s brother-in-law’s hoodlum brother (Charlie Hunnam, in a fantastic performance) drops by to borrow money before a soccer—sorry, “football”—match.

Matt tags along and is soon introduced to the world of “firms”—groups of sports fans who make the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry look like a friendly dinner table debate. Their main forms of recreation prove to be supporting their team, drinking heavily, and beating the fish and chips out of rival firms.

It is this last aspect that makes Matt say, in slightly cheesy voice-over form, “I was about to learn something no Ivy League school in the world could teach me;” basically, he learns to inflict physical rather than mental pain upon others.

The film moves from fight to fight, strung together with several vague and unsatisfying storylines, as Matt becomes more and more involved in his new way of life. He goes from barely being able to throw a punch (a state of affairs for the puny Wood that is somewhat more convincing than his later role as an expert brawler) to masterminding some of the firm’s more impressive exploits.

This process is not without its hitches: as an American, he isn’t immediately welcomed into the fold by everyone. With a few exceptions, however, the culture clash is played for laughs.

The culture clash aspect is also dropped partway through the movie, straining the director’s credibility. The characters begin speaking dense British slang, but, once their consummate “Britishness” has been established, revert to the Queen’s English.

The fights between firms are shot in a hyperkinetic, undersaturated Guy-Ritchie-esque style that succeeds brilliantly in making them look exhilarating. These scenes make clear the appeal of the combination of excitement and brotherhood that Matt finds in the life of a hooligan—and in case it’s not clear, he has some superfluous voice-overs about the appeal of fighting.

Less clear is what the film wants us to take away from all this violence. On one hand, the fights are filmed sexily, inducing viewers to surge with pleasure as the heroes decimate their opponents. On the other, the movie tries to have it both ways with sobering “violence is bad” moments, like the death of a twelve-year-old boy. The mixed messages are summed up in a final voice-over by Matt, who claims to have learned when to stand his ground and when to walk away.

However, in the movie, defending the honor of one’s football team is depicted as a perfectly valid reason to stand one’s ground. The message thus comes across as something more like, “Violence: it’s all in good fun until someone gets seriously injured or killed.” As morals go, telling us that broken noses are fine while broken carotid arteries are not doesn’t exactly rank with “do unto others.”

In this way, the film is like “Fight Club” without a willingness to let an endorsement of violence stand. As an ultra-violent, fun, underbelly-of-London movie, “Green Street Hooligans” is entertaining, if derivative. As a sober meditation on violence, it’s crippled by being too much fun. We stop caring about the real-life consequences because the film succeeds thoroughly enough in making us want to run off, become a hooligan, and beat the crap out of our over-privileged roommate.