When The Full Monty was released 25 years ago, it felt like a revelation.
On paper, it sounded like madness. A low-key comedy about a group of unemployed men hurtling at middle age who find momentary triumph by forming a homespun stripper troupe. Oral histories paint the production as a disaster.
Yet, upon release, it was an instant and long-running success.
It wasn’t the first working-class dramedy. By then, British cinema had already established itself as the playing ground of rough, down-and-out men. But it was the first that gave a voice to those who didn’t seek redemption with fists.
These were vulnerable, broken blokes. The kind with a song in them, without the ability to sing. That joy was beaten out of them long ago. The act of stripping became not just an act of defiance but a metaphor for what it meant to be a man of a certain age at that point in time.
Two decades later, Sheffield isn’t much better off. Multiple recessions and prime ministers have come and gone, money is tight, and public services are non-existent. The night of triumphant disrobing feels further than ever.
What makes The Full Monty work today is precisely what made it a success in the past. It’s an earnest, convincing comic reality that feels real because it allows us to recognize ourselves.
I found the film hilarious as a kid, even if I didn’t understand all of it. Today, I’m the same age as Robert Carlyle and Mark Addy were making it. Upon revisiting it, I found a melancholy undercurrent I was too young to comprehend at the time.
That same feeling extends throughout the years to the present. Gaz (Carlyle) is as lost as ever. He’s a vagrant in his own life. Someone capable of knowing that he wants something more than all of this but unable to picture a life when he has it.
His children, one a police officer, the other more like him than either cares to admit, grow more distant each day. His best friend, Dave, wants nothing more to do with him. “I’m like a six-year-old,” he admits, “I break everything I touch.”
The others remain in a similar state of arrested development. It’s not like they have anywhere else to go or anything else to become. Each day brings another dead end. Where other films about this act in life look back at an Arcadia, The Full Monty wonders just how little we’ve changed.
It would be easy for The Full Monty to be a gloomy and miserabilist fare. And, in all fairness, the tears it elicits are not always from laughter. But there is plenty to cackle about, even if only to spite the overwhelming odds.
At 8 hours in length, the series is a bit all over the place. But a part of that is expectation. Calling it The Full Monty conjures up images of a lighthearted romp – a brisk 80 minutes of inconsequential fun.
Which is fair; the original became a global phenomenon. That kind of thing always muddies the waters. But should you revisit the material, you’ll find a thunderously beating political heart at its core. The same that keeps ticking to this day.
It’s the kind of series that feels almost communal – like seeing old friends. And as with old friends, they drive you nuts sometimes. They can be frustrating and set in their ways. At times, you wonder why you can’t just defenestrate them to clear the air.
Such it is with the series as well. The odd quips about cancelations and Nigerian prince scams feel dated right out of the gate. They’re a showcase of how fast culture moves today. Which, in turn, makes the displacement of its leads feel that much more potent. Even when it misses, The Full Monty scores one for the home team.
It’s as close to art imitating life as you could imagine.