Fats Bannerman (Ian McNeice) stages a popular radio show where he tells the continuing story of a Jane Austen-style heroine and her suitors, which he makes up himself, doing the research and recording his thoughts and plans for his next episode into his portable tape recorder. But the disparity between the genteel world of his fiction and the more depressing reality he lives in does find him somewhat in denial, as he is now divorced and living in a bad area of the city in a flat that has holes in the walls - he's barely scraping by...
Pretty obscure even by the standards of eighties independent movies out of Britain, Voice Over was one of the first works by Christopher Monger, and if it was recalled for anything it was the controversy that erupted around its initial screening, as it was criticised by women's groups for its perceived misogyny. No matter that the character holding the less than salubrious views was the most pathetic one in the story, and unlikely to be anybody's idea of a role model, but there was a sense that this was somehow so distasteful that nobody would want to seek it out.
As it was, not many had the opportunity when it was brought out in a handful of selected venues and thereafter sank without trace. It has distribution now as wide as it ever had, yet didn't elicit the same response later as perhaps the world had moved on, on maybe it wasn't especially interested in tiny budget Welsh drama with dodgy plot issues. What we were dealing with was the age old mental disintegration yarn, and there were no surprises about the manner in which Fats ended up after sabotaging his radio career when the pressure of modern life got too much to bear, although in a grimly humorous development when he turned his period soap opera to horror the ratings soar.
But Fats' radio career was not the sole concern, as he starts to suffer a crisis of confidence when he makes the mistake of agreeing to an interview. The journalist takes him down, accusing him of banality and his audience of tuning in to laugh at his work rather than appreciate it in the refined spirit intended. This, plus another unfortunate encounter with supposed fans, triggers the broadcaster into a downward spiral of dejection, mirroring the gloomy cityscape he exists within, although a curious thing happens, not only on his show which has turned more lurid, but in his real life when he discovers a near-catatonic young woman (Bish Nethercote) lying by the side of the road after she has been attacked.
He takes her back to his place, gets a doctor to look at her and is advised by him to take her to an institution for professional help. However, Fats then dismisses his worries and keeps the woman, who he names Bitch after the only word she occasionally says, as her sort of guardian - or more likely her captor. We were on dubious ground here, but the lead character's motives are not wholly clear, as he might be out to control the woman when he cannot control much else, or he might be genuinely benevolent in his deeply misguided fashion. That said, there's little doubt Fats is going off the rails by the latter stages when he broadcasts an avant garde speech and saxophone improvisation as his latest show, and his self-destruction ends up affecting others, one in particular in the predictable fashion. McNeice was as reliable as always in a hard to fathom role, and there was a sense of society in decay here that stayed with you, but that didn't prevent it being rather silly. Music by Edward Klak.
