MODEST MASTERPIECE “Local Hero” turns 30 this month.

In this article, from five years ago, Jasper Rees spoke to those who made the film A year ago, Donald Trump’s plan to plant a golfing resort on a strip of Aberdonian coastline hit a glitch. A farmer living in a trailer declined to sell up. A personal visitation from the gambling squillionaire resulted in a salty Anglo-Saxon exchange. Boy, would it be good to see the movie. Except that in a way we already have.

“Local Hero”, in which a Texan oil company’s attempt to buy up a whole Scottish village is thwarted by a lone white-haired beachcomber, is 25 years old. Half the film was shot up the road in the tiny port of Pennan (above)–nowadays billed, on undiscoveredscotland.co.uk, as the home of “Scotland’s most famous phone box”. The anniversary is worth celebrating not just because of the happy recurrence of its plot. Bill Forsyth’s film is a modest masterpiece. That’s how I’ve always thought of it, anyway. I first saw “Local Hero” as a school leaver in 1983, and it has stayed in my head ever since, along with Mark Knopfler’s bittersweet acoustic theme tune. At first, it seemed merely a comic gem. The joke was that the hicks are far cannier than they appear to MacIntyre, the cocksure emissary sent from Houston to negotiate.

But the older you get, the more it looks like the darkest Nordic tragedy: having fallen for this bucolic paradise, the incomer is brutally exiled back to an inferno of skyscrapers and tailbacks. It’s a measure of how subversive a film it was that Forsyth got into trouble at the test screening in Seattle. “There was irritation”, he recalls, “that this little upstart from Europe was having the gall to hint these things about the American way of life. MacIntyre was an everyman losing his personality in the glass tower of work. One guy got me against the wall and said, ‘You don’t have the right to play around with the American hero.'” The film’s success brought Forsyth the chance to make three movies in America. He returned disillusioned and since “Gregory’s Two Girls” (1999), he hasn’t shot a frame. But along with Peter Riegert and Denis Lawson, the film’s two male leads, he accepts this invitation to blow out the candles.

“Local Hero” came about when the producer David Puttnam, who was about to win an Oscar for “Chariots of Fire”, advised Forsyth that there would be studio money for a Scottish script with parts for a couple of American actors. One was the role of the star-gazing petro-mogul Felix Happer. “I wrote it with Burt Lancaster in my head from the very beginning,” Forsyth says. “I’d read in an interview that he’d like to do some real comedy.” He also drew on a recent deal struck with an oil consortium in Orkney. “The chief executive of the council realised he had a strong position and got the community a cut of the revenue and incredible things like care of libraries and community centres.”

Thus was conceived the alluring figure of Gordon Urquhart, the savvy hotelier and accountant (“we tend to double up on jobs around here,” as he explains). He was played, or beautifully underplayed, by Lawson. “Around that time it was quite hard to find a contemporary Scottish character who wasn’t in wellies and a kilt or a Gorbals heavy,” says Lawson. “I had hardly ever used my own voice. It’s the most enjoyable experience I’ve ever had.” The same endorsement comes from Riegert, who had to fight off Michael Douglas and half of Hollywood to land the part of MacIntyre. “If you could storyboard the best possible experience for an actor, this would be it,” he says. “It was effortless. I recognised the material right off the page. My only question was how well could the director direct this movie? And ‘Gregory’s Girl’ pretty much convinced me there wouldn’t be any problem.” It was in “Gregory’s Girl”, his no-budget comedy of teenage angst, that Forsyth, then mainly a documentary-maker, paraded a taste for offbeat whimsy.

In “Local Hero” he quietly folded it into a capacious narrative about sea and sky and the tectonic plates of the cold war. By night the northern lights twinkle benignly in a sky that daily swarms with NATO test jets, while the ancient waters yield lobsters, embargoed South African oranges and a hearty trawlerman from Murmansk, who boats in to sing at the ceilidh and check on his investment portfolio. This colourful character was no fanciful invention. “There were Russian trawlers that anchored off Ullapool,” says Forsyth. “In the thick of the cold war it was quite interesting that half a dozen Russians would come ashore and go into a pub. A very basic motivation was to let people feel that Scotland had a cosmopolitan aspect.” Hence the plot’s other fish out of water, the west African vicar. The film has had a healthy afterlife on VHS and DVD. Its environmental credentials have crystallised into what now looks like a timely sermon about our over-reliance on oil. Happer choppers in like a deus ex machina to close the deal, only to come up against old Ben, the wise man of the beach, who persuades him to switch from oil to astronomy. MacIntyre is expelled back to his snazzy Houston high-rise with only sea shells and snapshots as mementoes. Remarkably, Riegert played the exquisitely melancholy final scene before he’d clapped eyes on Pennan or Arisaig on the west coast, where the beach scenes were filmed. “Since we hadn’t made the movie and I didn’t know what my emotional experience was going to be,” he explains, “I had to disinvest my imagination so the audience could invest theirs onto me. To me, that’s what makes the execution of the movie so interesting. Bill understood that moviegoers are not interested in what the actors are feeling. They’re interested in what they’re feeling.” Forsyth also saw that he had ended on a wrist-slashing note. So did Puttnam, who tried to undermine the bleakness of his director’s vision by arranging screenings of “Whisky Galore” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” for him. Eventually the studio stepped in and asked for a more uplifting ending. “They wanted Mac to change his mind and stay,” says Forsyth. “It was very early days for me in Hollywood, but I thought that’s such a typical studio response. It’s as if the other half of the movie doesn’t mean anything. It seems so banal.” He offered a compromise which they didn’t realise was even blacker. Before “Going Home”–Knopfler’s electronic version of the theme tune–surges in (it was recorded on Puttnam’s instructions to send the audience home in a better mood), there is one final wide shot of the village and its gleaming phone box. It rings, but nobody answers. The American everyman has been forgotten. The phone box still receives visitors to this day. “I’ve been back once,” says Lawson. “I drove in just to have a little look around. There was a couple who had driven in behind us to see the phone box. And they couldn’t quite believe that I was standing there.” While the case of the golf resort rumbles on, maybe Donald Trump should pay a visit. He might learn something. Picture “Local Hero” Jasper Rees is an arts feature writer, co-founder of theartsdesk.com and author of “Bred of Heaven” ARTS JASPER REES AUTUMN 2008 FILM ARTICLE TOOLS Email this page Printer-friendly version Delicious StumbleUpon Facebook COMMENTS Local Hero November 28, 2008 – 11:53 — Visitor (not verified) “Local Hero” is on my Top Ten Films list. It contains one of the best performances Burt Lancaster ever gave. Another element not mentioned in this article is the romance between the geeky “assistant” to Peter Reigert’s character and what might be a mermaid. It’s hard to believe this movie is 25 years old; like all classics, it remains as fresh as when it was filmed. So glad to see it celebrated. “A year ago, Donald Trump’s November 29, 2008 – 14:30 — Visitor (not verified) “A year ago, Donald Trump’s plan to plant a golfing resort on a strip of Aberdonian coastline hit a glitch. A farmer living in a trailer declined to sell up. A personal visitation from the gambling squillionaire resulted in a salty Anglo-Saxon exchange”………… Excuse me, people from Aberdeenshire are not Anglo-Saxon! Local Hero  The above,hits my own feelings about this great movie right on the button! I saw this movie straight after my a-levels in 1983 and I always thought it was a quietly subversive movie.We had just given Thatcherism our mandate to change the UK forever and it was the beginning of large corporations taking over the UK resources.The final scene and also the band playing “Mist on the Mountain” will always stay with me,both scenes create an air of deep loss and longing.Forsyth was clever to cover the silent protests/remorse,and should be directing and using his great talent. This is an extraordnarily April 1, 2010 – 00:15 — mjpp (not verified) This is an extraordnarily insightful overview of one of the great overlooked films of the last 30 years. The comments above prove that, like all classic works of art, this film sustains multiple readings and avenues of interpretation that no brief synopsis/critical review can contain (though this is one of the best). I would disagree only on one point; the ending was, I found, not at all bleak. It would have been a subversive of the film to have Mac refuse to leave or ‘change his mind’ and return to Ferness, but the final shot, wherein that lonely phone box rings, does not, in my view, mean Mac is forgotten, but that he has in fact triumphed over his isolation, overcome the shallow relationships he has tried vainly to perpetuate (Rita, Trudy (both the rabbit and the ex-girlfriend)) and understands the emptiness his life embodies, and which is embodied so wonderfully in the beautiful but sterile penultimate shot of Houston.

He calls; the phone rings; the film ends, but this does not mean no one answers. Instead we, the audience, are invited in, to take up the story in a very Woolfian sense of an ending which tells us that the story from the point of view of the author can only go so far and that we, if we want a truly fulfilling artistic experience, must accept the invitation of the text and participate in the creation of meaning. For myself, I always see the ending as a vindication of Mac’s evolution from a closed-off gnomish grotesque to a fully living man, willing to embrace the rest of humanity by reaching out to those who have made him aware of the possibility of real human relationships beyond telexs, and beyond Moritz’s hilariously lampooned caricature of ‘therapy.’. The irony that he is only able to do this through that iconic phone box does not, for me, reduce the impact of the fact that Mac can now, fianlly, connect with people on a level he has probably never experienced. This is not bleak, nor is it maudlin or Hollywood-dumb. It’s hopeful, and it’s ambiguous, and leaves up to you, the viewer, how to see it. Does someone answer? Or not? I think they do, and for me, that’s both an invitation I will always be grateful to the film for, and an affirmation that was not granted as a compromise, but very well earned.