'Party People' Throws Out History for Musical Myth

Never has pathological lying been so appealing.

"24 Hour Party People," the newest import from England, tells the approximate history of the Manchester music scene from the late '70s to the early '90s through the eyes of Tony Wilson. Steve Coogan plays Wilson, a television journalist and co-founder of Factory Records, the innovative label that managed the likes of Joy Division, New Order and the Happy Mondays.

Wilson is the movie's blatantly unreliable narrator, piecing together the concerts, personalities and mythologies that made up the post-punk era of British pop. Littered with wild anecdotes, the film is constantly fusing fact and fiction to relay the spirit, rather than the timeline, of this frenetic musical age.

Real players from the period pop up to join in on the joke, deconstructing as well as perpetuating the myths. After Wilson finds his wife having sex in a public bathroom with Howard Devoto, member of the Buzzcocks, the camera pans to the real-life Devoto, smirking and shaking his head as he cleans a nearby sink. "This never happened," Wilson admits.

Historical accuracy is clearly beside the point, and Wilson, in one of his characteristically pithy quips, tells us, "When you have to choose between the truth and the legend, print the legend."

As the Cambridge-educated, post-modern Renaissance man, Wilson is the 20th century Icarus he alludes to in the first scene. We watch him soar and crash on his glorious pop-culture wings, navigating his way through a decade of sound. But in contrast to the Greek myth, we also see him get back up. It is this resilience that drives Wilson's character, never allowing him to lose faith in the music and all its mayhem.

"Party People" deals primarily with Joy Division and the Happy Mondays, but for the most part the musicians blend together into a general backdrop of gaunt faces and wild behavior, leaving Wilson at the eye of the creative storm. From this position he is able to impose a godly order and beauty over the chaos, reining in the musical talent while indulging -- and sometimes joining in on -- the bands' crazy lifestyles.

Joy Division's lead singer, Ian Curtis, (Sean Harris) is the exception among the musicians. In a limited number of scenes Harris manages to convey Curtis' unpredictably edgy behavior without sacrificing the sublime, haunting quality of his spirit, a trait that still perplexes fans today.

The film is shot on digital cameras, which does a lot artistically to convey the physical and cultural landscape of post-industrial Manchester. Its bleak, decaying streets provide a compelling source for the angst and rage that comes through in the music, while the grainy, jerky cinematography gives the movie an intimate, personal feel.

Some people may be disappointed by the general focus on Wilson rather than the music, but the momentum and energy of "Party People" is never far from the songs that inspired the times. In one of the final scenes, Wilson watches the ghosts of post-punk's casualties at a club as they dance along to the beat. In the immortal spirit of the music, these personalities live on.

The accessibility of "Party People" is debatable, and it will surely appeal most to established fans of the music. Some of the events and faces run together, making it helpful to have a knowledgeable party along to fill in the blanks, but the movie is so well-conceived that it should engage an audience beyond Anglophiles and post-punk devotees.

In the end, "24 Hour Party People" delivers the legend -- lies and all -- without ever sacrificing the truth.

The Arts & Entertainment Editor can be reached at artsdesk@unc.edu.