At first glance, Withnail and I doesn’t seem like a conventional feel-good film. It ends with an out-of-work actor performing Hamlet in the pouring rain to a caged wolf, alone after his best friend walks away. The flat they shared is left in ruins, and their future prospects are as grim as the grey London sky. But for those who love Bruce Robinson’s 1987 directorial debut, the sadness and squalor only deepen the joy. It’s a film that finds comfort in chaos—and that’s precisely why it endures.
A Film That Doesn’t Know It’s Funny
Robinson, who wrote and directed Withnail and I, once described his film as a comedy that “doesn’t know it’s funny.” Star Richard E. Grant, who plays the titular Withnail, described it as a story about “the nobility of failure.” Indeed, the plot is minimal: two out-of-work actors escape their miserable Camden flat for a disastrous holiday in the Lake District, plagued by bad weather, unfriendly locals, and the unwanted attention of an eccentric uncle. They return to London to face reality—one of them with a new job, the other with only booze and bitterness for company.
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Yet within that skeletal framework lies a film filled with unforgettable moments. Witty dialogue flows effortlessly from scene to scene, delivered with theatrical gusto by its small but exceptional cast. Robinson’s script, laced with poetry and pathos, never indulges in traditional punchlines. Every line feels lived-in, elevated by its refusal to chase laughs.
A Masterclass in Cult Cinema
Based loosely on Robinson’s own life in 1960s London, Withnail and I was never meant to be a mainstream hit. In fact, as the late critic Kevin Jackson once put it, “Try pitching that one to DreamWorks.” But its themes—friendship, failure, art, and alcohol—have struck a powerful chord with audiences. It’s a cult classic not because it tries to be, but because it is unflinchingly itself.
Paul McGann’s Marwood (never named in the film) serves as the semi-autobiographical narrator, the “I” of the title. He’s soft-spoken, introspective, and increasingly desperate to escape the downward spiral of his friend. Grant’s Withnail, by contrast, is flamboyant, tragic, and devastatingly funny—a walking catastrophe fuelled by red wine and reckless abandon. Rounding out the cast is Richard Griffiths as Uncle Monty, whose combination of florid speech, theatrical melancholy, and predatory behaviour makes him unforgettable.
The story unfolds in three acts: the grimy bohemia of Camden, the bleak absurdity of the countryside, and the return to a changed London. As Jackson noted, it’s the classic Ring Lardner structure: send a man up a tree, throw rocks at him, then bring him down.
A Personal Connection That Spans Decades
For many fans, Withnail and I is more than a film—it’s a touchstone. For journalist Martin Pengelly, who first watched the film at age 16, it became a lifelong companion. Watching with his uncle, whom he affectionately likens to Monty, Pengelly was spellbound. He revisited the film countless times, in college halls, in adulthood, and even while walking the northern hills where he scattered his father’s ashes.
To rewatch Withnail and I is to rediscover it, Pengelly writes. Its lines become mantras, its characters old friends. It’s a film that travels with you through life, morphing in meaning as you grow. The laughs remain, but the sadness cuts deeper—and yet, it never overwhelms.
Behind the Scenes: Life Imitates Art
The film’s raw authenticity stems from Robinson’s real experiences. The character of Withnail is based on Vivian MacKerrell, a friend of Robinson’s who struggled with alcoholism and barely worked as an actor. Marwood is a reflection of Robinson himself, who found greater success in writing and directing. Uncle Monty was famously based on the Italian director Franco Zeffirelli, who cast Robinson in Romeo and Juliet and later made unwanted advances towards him.
At a 2007 British Film Institute (BFI) screening, Robinson recounted one such encounter. On Zeffirelli’s couch, with whisky in hand, the director asked: “Are you a sponge, or a stone?” Robinson, terrified, replied: “Bit of both, Franco.” That same line is uttered in the film by Monty, to Marwood, cementing the eerie overlap between life and script.
The Power of Laughter in Despair
So why does a film so steeped in sadness and failure bring such joy? The answer lies in its truth. Withnail and I doesn’t sugar-coat life. It shows loneliness, addiction, disappointment, and unrealised dreams—but it does so with humour, grace, and exquisite language. It never asks for pity. Instead, it invites us to laugh at the absurdity, to recognise our own follies, and to find beauty in imperfection.
Comedy doesn’t need to be heartwarming to be healing. Sometimes, it’s the bleakest laughs that stay with us the longest. As Robinson once said of another work: “It’s very funny but also sad as fuck.” That paradox defines Withnail and I.
A Feel-Good Film for Those Who’ve Failed
Pengelly resists quoting from the film, wary of sounding like a college bar bore. But fans know the lines by heart. “We’ve gone on holiday by mistake.” “I demand to have some booze!” “I’ve had enough of making do.” These are not punchlines—they’re poetry. They resonate not just because they’re funny, but because they’re true.
The final scene, Withnail alone at the London Zoo, reciting Shakespeare’s Hamlet, is heartbreaking. Yet it’s also defiant. Here is a man who has lost everything, but still performs. Still speaks poetry to the rain. Still believes in art, even as the world moves on without him.
It’s a moment of tragic beauty. And for those who know failure, disappointment, and the bittersweet ache of friendship lost, it is—paradoxically—the most uplifting ending imaginable.
A Legacy That Endures
Nearly four decades on, Withnail and I continues to charm and devastate. It’s a film for outsiders, for artists, for anyone who’s ever been broke, broken, or just unsure of their place in the world. It’s a film that lets you laugh at your pain and raises a glass to the beautiful disaster that is life.
Yes, Withnail and I is my feel-good film. Not despite its sadness, but because of it. As Withnail might say, it’s a masterpiece “distilled from pure fear, like fine cognac from a bad crop.”
And that, in the end, is why it matters
