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3:07 a.m.

The door to the public restroom swings open violently.  A pudgy, pale and bruised hooker leads a crying 12 year old into a stall.  The images on the canvas are grainy and shaky.  Watching a film like Director Paul Andrew Williams' "London To Brighton" in an intimate setting as that of an auditorium in the Gene Siskel Film Center, where the European Union Film Festival takes place, is quite the experience. First off, the auditoriums themselves are small and have sloped seating.  The screen is so close to the first row, it almost violates your immediate personal space. And then there is the audience demographic: mostly white senior citizens of the arts community.  Watching this film, some leave.  A cozy documentary featuring Nicole Kidman that is playing across the hall probably offers less f-bombs anyway.

When "London" had its initial debut overseas in 2006, it had some overblown praise: "The Best British Film of the Century!" Uh huh.  Yet seeing it in these modest settings, with an uninfluenced eye, I came away from the film much more disturbed then I first anticipated.  I didn't see it as art, though many critics in the field did think so back in 2006.  I saw it primarily as a worthy debut from Williams, fusing elements of the violent underworld, the anti-hero, and some quick editing.  The ending revelation regarding a villain's true motives is a bit of a stretch, especially if we're to believe all of his actions and behaviors up until that moment really happened the way they did.  To start spilling plot details here would be to take away the film's only draw.  At a brisk 85 minutes, "London" comes and goes as quick as the trains in the movie's station.

Yes, this is a film about the slimy underbelly of the prostitution world.  Yes, a minor gets into quite the violent sexual act--against her will.  Yes, somehow, the filmmakers are convinced that in making a career whore into the most loving mother-figure it will sidestep close character observation or 'wants.'  Williams is drawn to this portion of the world though.  His screenplay is weak, and the last twenty minutes drag out too long.  It's sometimes overbearing and for brief groupings of seconds is quietly brilliant.  It's a big slut of a debut, giving you a quick fix, but making you rethink the next morning on how the hell you ended in this person's bed. 

In fact, a large part of me coming back to the film and to write whatever amount on it, was propelled by an encounter I just had on the late night Blue Line train coming home.  My iPod was playing "Pistols and Fire" by Kings of Leon.  As the train stopped, a group of male hipsters came on the train.  They sat and chatted; I couldn't really hear their exchange, but it caught the attention of a tathered-looking woman, borderline homeless, who was violently shaking.  She stood up on her feet right away and pointed her rigid finger in the air and began saying that these young men were going to hell.  She stormed up and down the train, half yelling and half sobbing about the sins of man.  Once the train came to the next stop, the conductor escorted her out onto the platform.  As the doors closed I stared out my window and watched her clasp her big handbag and swirl her head around the black city night.  She was bewildered, angry, frightened and vigilant.  All at once.  I wanted to know her story.  I felt compelled.

Then I thought about "London To Brighton" again.  Williams is not wrong by trying to study this part of society.  He may not have produced a doctorate on celluloid, but his thesis is still pretty damn strong.  And that's always worth an eventual peek.

He'll make others I presume.