Blimey fellas, strike a light – the cockney geezer is back. A matter of months after BBC2’s loving paean to the male rogue White Gold roared off in its tatty Ford Capri, here comes the all-new Snatch (31 October, 10.05pm, AMC), which, according to the blurb, is “based on the world of the wildly popular Guy Ritchie movie”. If by “wildly popular” they mean beloved by nostalgic types who long for the times when men were men, women knew their place and respect was earned by snapping the limbs of one’s rivals then, sure, why not?
The reimagined Snatch is, like the film that inspired it, hopelessly in thrall to East End boozers, underground boxing, strip clubs and random acts of violence. It couldn’t be any more Brexit if it put Michel Barnier in a pair of concrete boots and dumped him in the River Thames.
To the plot, then, which follows the fortunes of twentysomething Albert Hill (Skins’ Luke Pasqualino) who, like the rakish protagonists of yore, keeps his hair trimmed, his clothes ironed and his shoes scrupulously shined. Albert longs to step out of the shadow of his dad, Vic (Dougray Scott), a career criminal currently serving a 20-year stretch, who monitors his son’s progress as a fledgling gangster from the inside via a smuggled smartphone. “You can either be a mark, or make a mark, Albert,” sighs his mother, Lily (Juliet Aubrey), with the worldly wisdom of a woman who has never left her postcode.
Problem is, Albert’s business dealings have fallen flat and now he’s in hock to a local hoodlum to the tune of 20 large ones. Desperate times call for desperate measures, which in this case involves doing over a security van belonging to coke-addled club owner and crime boss, Sonny Castillo (Ed Westwick), with the help of Castillo’s soon-to-be-ex girlfriend, Lotti (Phoebe Dynevor). Albert’s right-hand man here is Charlie (Rupert Grint, also credited as executive producer), a posh chump whose father runs a marijuana farm and whose blue blood hasn’t yielded the riches that are surely his birthright.
Charlie’s job here is to provide a seam of comedy in an otherwise wretchedly macho world bursting with all the familiar motifs – missing loot, robbers in rubber masks, women as window-dressing, shooters all over the gaff. Barely a scene goes by without a heavily filtered lineup of men swaggering purposefully down a street, sliding in and out of slo-mo, to a thundering grime soundtrack. Elsewhere, the cock-er-nee dialogue is shocking (“You’ve been tap-dancing around me quicker than Fred Astaire on nose candy”, etc), and the plot so full of holes it’s as if great swaths of the script have been carried away in a gust of wind. Why is Lily pushing her son to pay the bills when she runs her own flower business? Why does Lotti trust a couple of halfwits to steal her bloke’s money when she could raid the safe? Why does Charlie wear a bow tie? And why is Albert dressed like Jacob Rees-Mogg? Why, why, WHY?
The updated Snatch is not so much a diamond in the rough as a turd in the punchbowl, contaminating all who touch it. It shows us that if there’s one thing worse than an actual Guy Ritchie movie, it’s a knock-off version spread over 10 relentless episodes. It’s Ritchie done longa, louda and stupida. Seriously, lads, put a sock in it. You’ll wake the neighbours.
