On 18th May 1980 Ian Curtis took his own life at the age of 23, leaving a wife and young child behind. That’s the real tragedy of the Joy Division singer’s demise.
The fact that he was the most single influential British songwriter and performer of his generation pales into insignificance against the heart rending futility and waste of a young life, and its impact on those left behind.
Suicide remains one Society’s biggest taboos. And I speak from bitter experience as a callow 18 year with my Mother’s passing. The aftermath, and how it was dealt with left a pall over my life. I finally did therapy. I was suffering from PTSD.
It was no one’s, “fault”. No shit Sherlock.
After the therapeutic process I realise that. Plus I have amazing support from family. friends and Samaritans.
Ian Curtis’ combination of epilepsy and prescription drugs unleashed the demons that existed in his (and potentially all our) heads.
Once that imperceptible, onion thin layer of self-preservation melts away for whatever reason, things can start to unravel.
Many people somehow seem to function in everyday life. That doesn’t in anyway lessen the crippling pain they are in. Curtis’ onset of mental illnesses was swift and devastating.
Where the Sex Pistols, necessarily, were destructive, Ian Curtis and Joy Division were creative and stepped into the musical vacuum left by Punk.
A line can be traced directly through British music from this Band through the Fall, the Smiths, Happy Mondays, to Oasis, the Manics, Libertines and the first Arctic Monkeys record.
But the film, although featuring the music of Joy Division,never wavered from it’s purpose. Corbjin’s aim was commentating, and trying to reach an understanding of what ailed this young genius.
This was reflected in the stunning performance of Sam Riley in the lead, and of Samantha Morton who impresses me more and more. She was excellent as Myra Hindley in Longford, and captured the soul of Mary Queen of Scots in Elizabeth: The Golden Age.
The film was produced by Tony Wilson (Alan Partridge by day, John Peel by night) in alliance with Curtis’ widow Deborah. Wilson died before the film’s release. Crucially there is no sanctification of Curtis.
Control is a searing and sometimes brutal piece of art. The film puts me in mind of a cross between Jean Paul Sartre’s Les Mains Sales, and Saturday Night, Sunday Morning due to Anton Corbijn’s sparse Black and White production values and it’s portrayal of Northern deprivation from which Joy Division sprung.
This is a great movie, understated and all the better for it, delving into issues of love, real friendship, and what art is really for.
Humour is regularly a feature, even in such a seemingly Kafkaesque piece. Can Hooky REALLY be so wickedly funny all the time?
I imagine so, and it is fitting that Control provides such a good postscript for the genius that was Anthony H. Wilson, the man who had the vision to allow British music to re invent itself
It is October 1987, Stuarts Gardens, Portstewart, Co Derry and our student house.
I am playing a tape of Joy Division.
Mike Fisher: That’s just bloody student music!
Me: Yeah, and you like Bob Dylan.
Fisher: Yes, but the difference is that I understand Bob Dylan.
Some things should never be forgotten, or lived down.
TURN LEFT. 
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