Upon first glance, it would seem that Richard Burton’s Jimmy Porter, the garden-variety working-class prick in a nowhere British town, would stand front and center as the true asshole of Look Back in Anger. He’s both loquacious and wildly abusive; a dangerous, albeit alluring mix of native intelligence and primal rage. He treats every waking moment of his day like a battle royale, refusing to even allow a quiet breakfast to escape his withering commentary. All told, there isn’t a single likable thing about the poor lout, except that he exudes sweaty, unbridled sex pretty much 24/7, which makes him exactly the sort who will appeal to the real star of our show, one Helena Charles (Claire Bloom).
Her introduction is exactly as one would expect. Jimmy’s wife has asked Helena to stay in their already crowded flat for a fortnight while she rehearses for a play. She is cool and refined, a Blanche DuBois-type who’s used to discussions about Noel Coward over tea, not sparring matches with an arrogant ape. Naturally, Jimmy adds her to his collection of hated targets, and within seconds of her arrival, he’s insulting everything about her, up to and including her ancestry. Because Jimmy is himself college educated (though retaining a class envy unseen in the annals of British cinema), his verbal assaults are much more than juvenile spitfire; he can cut deep, and with unmatched precision.
Helena tries to detach herself from the proceedings, but in a room the size of a cheap motel, there’s only so much you can do. Jimmy is hateful, miserable, self-serving, and disgusting, so naturally, Helena falls in love. But only after Jimmy goes too far. In a rare emotional display, she smacks the sonofabitch. To Jimmy, this is exactly the response he had always craved from his meek wife, only she never bothered to try. Helena, however, has claws. Immediately following the slap, the two embrace, kiss, and, it is implied, fuck away what remains of the day. We knew it was coming, but it still hit like a blow to the solar plexus. What, again? I’m afraid so, lads. It’s in their DNA.
So, as we have come to hate Jimmy with all our might, we are then asked to switch loyalties and embrace his inevitable desire to strangle the dumb broad and throw her in the Thames. She loves this jerk? The man who has never uttered a single word in kindness? The sort of bloke who plays his trumpet as loud as possible at all hours of the night because no one is allowed to rest when genius is on display? The kind of bastard who works beneath his station because he thinks it bestows upon him some sort of nobility? And, moreover, a handy cover for his essential laziness and self-pitying martyr complex? All that and more, I’m afraid.
Maybe it was King Kong that did us in. Every beauty wants to tame the beast, and yes, she’s always willing to die trying. The worse they are, the greater the challenge. He only hits me sometimes. Oh, and those apologies. Even better with his shirt off. Name a cliché, it’s inside Helena, pushing and fighting to get out and help bring down civilization. If mass media is our collective guide for life – and yes, I believe it is, in just about every country that bothered to declare itself – it’s no wonder the fairy tale lives on with such vigor. Helena could have anyone, but she wants Jimmy. A lesson for the kids, in bold type and permanent ink. I’m starting to believe there’s no other way.
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