Mancunian Man quickly establishes Cliff Twemlow as “something of a godfather to Manchester filmmaking.” What follows is a suitably breakneck tour of his life that proves one thing: the sometime bouncer, actor, screenwriter, producer, composer, and novelist is a gift of a documentary subject.
Despite clocking up a couple of hours, this blistering tour of his relatively short career as a low-budget action filmmaker hits beat after beat. It could be one of the high-octane scripts Twemlow knocked off in a week or so, and that's all the more impressive as it opts for a chronological route. But producer David Gregory and director Jake West don't waste a moment of the journey.
Alongside a host of soundbite-offering friends, lovers, collaborators and researchers, Mancunian Man features clips aplenty of Twemlow's work as well as his influences and contemporary media. A nice touch sees clips of his sterling line delivery lifted to comment on or respond to contributions. For all the films he failed to distribute (one collaborator claims not to have seen any of them), there is a wealth of material to draw on.
The result is an intoxicating, very funny, occasionally poignant portrait of an independent filmmaker who deserves wider recognition: Cliff Twemlow, the tour de force behind films like G.B.H. Grievous Bodily Harm, Target Eve Island, The Ibiza Connection and Firestar: First Contact.
Born in the 1930s (but often claiming an earlier birth date, it's suggested, so he looked young for his age), the documentary captures the events that built his legendary status. Mistreatment during wartime evacuation made him a scrapper, while his vaudeville-dancer mother no doubt influenced his prolific career as a composer, with 2000 or so published songs (including one used in George Romero's Day of the Dead), supporting his lifestyle.
Twemlow's big break came when he penned the brilliantly titled Tuxedo Warrior in 1980, a biography-slash-philosophy on club bouncing. When the film rights were picked up, the feature that came out in 1982 bore little relation to his book, but his advance, and the chance to be on set as a stuntman/fight arranger gave him the bug.
Twemlow set off on a blistering career of fast cars, women, international film shoots and constant partying, roping in a core group of local friends, martial artists, doormen, models and more to fill in behind and in front of the camera. His timing was perfect. VCRs were flying into homes, and he became one of the first British filmmakers to cost-effectively shoot directly on video.
The danger of a documentary like this is that it has too much admiration for its subject and what he achieved (more in a year than most people do in a lifetime, as one contributor puts it). But unlike the on and off-screen drama of Twemlow's films, there's no danger there. Although the overriding impression of Twemlow is an enduring respect and affection, it doesn't skimp on the darker aspects that drove his extraordinary life and untimely death. It becomes clear he wasn't much of a businessman, and as his film shoots spiralled out of control (arrests, unpaid debts, a failure to distribute the end project), and royalty payments dried up, his energy levels couldn't keep up with his innovation.
Despite the tangible loss felt by many contributors, it's a joy to watch the (admittedly very masculine) family of filmmakers he built up via archive clips and recent recollections. It's particularly fascinating to hear the consequences of Twemlow's attempts to bring big names into that core group—notably James Bond alumni Fiona Fullerton and Charles Gray.
The documentary's world premiere was one of the highlights of 2023's Frightfest, and on digital, it stands a good chance of introducing a new generation to Twemlow, or at least, film fans outside the M1 to M99 postcodes. It's a touching tribute, and with anecdotes that hit the heartstrings as much as the funny bone, it more than matches its subject.
Even if you're not a fan of the action-packed exploitation of his movies, chances are you'll leave Mancunian Man with an admiration for his relatively unsung contribution to British indie film.
Manunian Man is available on digital platforms now.
