The proposed Merky Films biopic of the Arsenal legend threatens to introduce joy into the British cinematic tradition. We must put a stop to it before the working class gets any ideas.
I was sharing a remarkably dry pheasant with several minor royals at a charity gala last week when I received the deeply troubling news: the rapper Stormzy, through his production company Merky Films, is developing a biopic about Arsenal legend Ian Wright. But it wasn’t the involvement of a grime artist in the sacred halls of British cinema that upset my digestion. It was the quote from Wright himself, threatening that the film will have “hard-hitting moments, but in the end I want it to give people hope and joy.”
I immediately set down my fork and dabbed my mouth with a linen napkin. Hope and joy? In a British film about football? I am sorry, but we simply cannot allow this sort of reckless optimism to infect the culture.
For over half a century, the British cinematic tradition has rested on three sturdy pillars: unrelenting misery, bleak Northern weather, and protagonists who ultimately accept that trying to improve their station in life is a fool’s errand. If we begin allowing working-class heroes like Wright—a man who famously rose from Sunday league football and a brief spell in prison to become one of the most lethal strikers in Europe—to have happy endings on screen, we run the risk of giving the public dangerous ideas.
I have followed Ian Wright’s career closely, mostly through the reinforced glass of the Arsenal Emirates corporate hospitality suite, whilst enjoying a delightful prawn vol-au-vent. From that vantage point, safely insulated from the noise of the crowd and the smell of the meat pies, I felt a deep kinship with him. I saw a man doing his job, much as I do my job of having opinions about people doing their jobs. Surely, he understands that his purpose is to provide fleeting entertainment for men in tailored suits, not to serve as a beacon of upward mobility for the masses. If the multiplexes start dispensing “hope,” what is to stop the populace from expecting functional public services, or worse, asking for a raise?
I took it upon myself to reach out to Stormzy’s representatives, offering to guide this project back toward acceptable levels of despair. I explained that while Wright’s journey from a difficult childhood in South London to lifting the Premier League trophy might sound “inspiring” to the untrained ear, it is structurally flawed. A true prestige film requires a devastating third-act tragedy.
I suggested the film completely bypass his 185 goals for Arsenal and instead focus intimately on the agonizing, soul-crushing moment years later when he had to sit in a television studio and watch Thierry Henry, a man who possessed the sheer audacity to be both French and faster than him, systematically erase his all-time scoring record.
Imagine the pathos. The camera lingering on Wright’s face as Henry glides past another defender. The unspoken realization that all his sweat, his injuries, his triumphant volleys against Aston Villa, have been reduced to a historical footnote by a man in knee-high socks. That is the sort of crushing existential defeat that wins BAFTAs. But when I proposed this to the production team, I was met with complete and utter silence. They are seemingly blinded by this vulgar desire to celebrate his achievements.
We politely informed the columnist that Ian is a national treasure who brings light to millions, and that we will not be re-writing the third act to feature him weeping quietly in a BBC dressing room while holding a statuette of Thierry Henry.
Frobisher’s dismissal only confirms my worst fears about the modern entertainment industry. They are entirely disconnected from the needs of the discerning broadsheet reader. We do not go to the cinema to see people overcome adversity; we go to see them punished for it, so that we might feel better about our own comfortable, eventless lives.
Furthermore, the film entirely ignores Wright’s true pinnacle. If they insist on showing his success, they are focusing on the wrong era. The movie shouldn't be about football at all. It should be a two-hour tense psychological thriller about his transition into television punditry.
This is where the real stakes lie. The grueling transition from muddy pitches to the high-stakes world of Match of the Day. The intense, Rocky-style training montages where Wright learns to nod solemnly while Alan Shearer states the painfully obvious. The harrowing scene where he must decide which sensible, thick-knit cardigan to wear for a Sunday afternoon broadcast. The quiet, dignified struggle of pretending to respect Gary Neville’s tactical analysis. This is the aspirational content the British public deserves—a testament to the fact that no matter how exciting your youth was, if you work hard enough, you can eventually achieve the ultimate dream of sitting behind a desk and pointing at a screen.
And what of Stormzy? A man who, much like Wright, has transcended his roots to become a fixture of the British establishment, complete with his own publishing imprint and a Glastonbury headline slot. One would think that after achieving such monumental success, Stormzy would understand the importance of pulling the ladder up behind him. When you reach the top, you do not turn around and make films telling the youth that they too can overcome systemic barriers. You buy a country estate, complain about the inheritance tax, and commission a dreary black-and-white indie film about the horrors of rural agriculture. That is the social contract.
Wright has noted that his life story contains “hard-hitting moments.” Excellent. We can work with that. I would be willing to compromise if the filmmakers agree to stretch these moments out to punishing lengths. If the film must show him winning the FA Cup, let it be shot entirely in slow motion, scored by a discordant cello, while a voiceover recites bleak statistics about the declining life expectancy in industrial towns. Let the audience leave the theater not with a spring in their step, but burdened by a profound, inescapable sense of their own mortality.
We have seen what happens when we allow uplifting biopics to proliferate. People leave the cinema with a dangerous glint in their eye. They start believing they might be able to start a business, or write a novel, or successfully appeal a parking ticket. The entire British social order is predicated on the firm understanding that things will probably get worse, and you just have to put the kettle on. “Hope and joy,” as Wright so carelessly phrases it, are American imports, as toxic to our cultural ecosystem as chlorinated chicken.
Instead, Merky Films is intent on delivering a vibrant, energetic celebration of a Black British icon who defied the odds. It is a tragedy. I have already drafted a letter to the British Board of Film Classification, urging them to slap an 18-rating on the biopic on the grounds of explicit, non-consensual joy. Until then, I will be boycotting the project. I prefer my football heroes exactly where they belong: safely retired, mildly depressed, and quietly agreeing with me.