The Agent Review

In these times of credit crunch, empty pockets and financial upheaval, the bloated, hugely expensive Hollywood blockbuster feels a little vulgar: an insensitive, coarse party pooper that flashes its cash like Harry Enfield's Loadsamoney. That might explain the rise of the micro-budget indie, films that make a virtue of their slender resources and wear their lack of wherewithal like a badge of honour.

The talk of Cannes in 2009 was Colin, a vampire film reportedly made on camcorder for just £45. Shane Meadows' guerilla comedy Le Donk And Scor-Zay-Zee was made with Paddy Considine in just five days. Filmed in twice that time for £26,000, The Agent might seem profligate by comparison. But it certainly deserves to be mentioned in the same company, if only for the determination producers Lesley Manning and Martin Wagner have shown in giving their modest film a cinema release.

Directed by the former, this adaptation of Wagner's 2007 play invites us into the rarefied world of Alexander Joyce (William Beck), a high-flying London literary agent whose life is a heady whirl of deal-making, glad-handing and celebrity schmoozing. Awkward, shy and socially inept, author Stephen Parker (Stephen Kennedy) belongs in Alexander's universe like a fly on a canapé. Having wrangled his way into Alexander's office, though, he won't be placated by the usual cliches and blandishments. Stephen wants him to get his manuscript into print, and he's got a gun in his pocket to ensure he does it.

It's not a real gun, however - just some revealing snapshots that could bring Alexander's comfortable existence crashing about his ears. Small wonder that the agent feels cornered as, over the course of a long day, Stephen hounds him from party to rooftop to fairground dodgems, exhorting him to use his influence with Maureen Lipman's powerful publisher on his behalf.

Very much a vehicle for its little-known but well-matched leads, The Agent often recalls the acerbic social commentaries of Neil LaBute as it dissects the shallow and self-serving hypocrisies of Alexander's superficial business. It's also effective in showing how power ebbs and flows between the agent and his client as Joyce slowly re-asserts himself against his determined but vulnerable adversary.

Less successful is Wagner's stagebound dialogue which mostly consists of Pinter-esque exchanges and questions being answered with questions. This works okay in the theatre, but soon leaves a cinema audience desiring a bit of clarity - not least about the nature of Stephen's tome, the Hitchcock-ian McGuffin which drives the story forward but remains frustratingly elusive throughout.

Still, one can't deny this is a compelling, well-constructed chamber piece that keeps you entertained for all of its admirably limited duration. Those who seek out this homegrown offering will be glad they did.