‘Marching Powder’ review: Danny Dyer’s sweary coke comedy is a bit of a comedown

This indie Brit-flick is being billed as a “proper naughty comedy” – an accurate strap line given its never ending supply of C-bombs. Director Nick Love’s screenplay also features some ill-advised transphobic and ableist slurs, deployed for supposed shock value in the same way that a six-year-old might say “poo bum” in front of their parents. But Marching Powder isn’t just about anti-woke banter: it also has plenty of affection for its characters, even if it doesn’t fully flesh them out. It’s punchy but never lands a killer emotional blow.

Danny Dyer‘s wide boy swagger is the fulcrum on which the whole thing rests. Reuniting with Love, who directed his mid-2000s geezer features The Football Factory and The Business, Dyer clearly relishes this meaty, very un-PC post-EastEnders role. He plays Jack, a 45-year-old South Londoner who spends most of his time sniffing dickie – that’s Cockney rhyming slang for coke – and scrapping with fans of rival football clubs.

When Jack gets arrested, a judge gives him six weeks to turn his life around – or else he’ll end up in prison. The legal aspects of the film are a bit vague, so it’s best not to overthink it. Essentially, the ultimatum means no more lines, pints and fights for Jack, which is a big ask given that his life consists of lines, pints and fights with other fortysomething bruisers.

He also has to beg his gruff father-in law (Geoff Bell) for a job. It’s an awkward conversation at the best of times but the old c**t – sorry, man – is already paying Jack’s rent and funding private school for son JJ (Dyer’s real-life scion Arty). Along the way, Jack tries to reconnect with his neglected wife (Stephanie Leonidas), who’s seeking the fulfilment she doesn’t get from her husband at art classes.

For much of the bender, Marching Powder delivers a steady supply of thrills, spills and coked-up binges. There are even a few touching moments involving Jack and his wild card brother-in-law Kenny Boy (Calum McNab), whose bravado fails to mask serious mental health issues. Love also slips in some potshots at politicians, though none are quite as memorable as when Dyer branded David Cameron a “twat” with his “trotters up” after the Brexit vote or caused havoc at the BRIT Awards with a few shots towards Kier Starmer. But ultimately, this initially lively film is sunk by its own lack of ambition.

Jack doesn’t need to reinvent himself as a pie and liquor (vicar) but Marching Powder would hit harder if Love allowed him a little more personal growth. As it stands, the film’s early antics gradually lose their energy about halfway through, a bit like Jack’s wasted potential. Still, all is not lost: at least half a dozen of its many C-bombs really will make you laugh.

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