Being Jamaican, I have seen Perry Henzell’s cult classic The Harder They Come many times. Each time I do, the experience is like rummaging through an old trunk and discovering faded photos of my parents as their younger selves, each photo revealing some unspoken truth about my familial heritage.

In a way similar to the characters in City of God, the characters in The Harder They Come, though fictional, execute their roles with such great truth and integrity that every nuance they bring to the screen is palpable. This is not necessarily a result of meticulous direction, but something better credited to the actors Henzell cast for the film. In the accompanying director’s commentary, the director rightfully acclaims “genius” cast members such as Carl Bradshaw, and for the majority, previous acting experience was little to none; almost sixty percent of the dialogue was improvised.

Ivan (the lead character played by renowned musician Jimmy Cliff, who initially turned the role down) arrives fresh off a bus from rural Jamaica, full of naïve ambition and with a mission to make it in the music industry. He soon learns the harsh realities of city life, and fed up with being oppressed uses a glass shard to slash the face of his bullying boss. You don’t need Hollywood special effects in order to feel every slice of the impromptu weapon tearing into flesh:

“Don’t!” (slash) “Fuck!” (slash) “With!” (slash) “Me!” (slash).

You feel the pain of the public lashes he receives as punishment for his actions; smell the sweat and sess in the studio as he cuts his first tune; taste the grit in his teeth as he considers shooting a motorcycle-mounted policeman intercepting his drug run.

As captivating as Cliff and most of the cast are, however, the casting of non-actors is, at times, also the film’s downfall. There are the inevitable instances of inexperienced extras staring into camera, not privy to the cardinal rule of filmmaking. Elsa, Ivan’s love interest, only hits her stride toward the end of the film as she consoles Pedro and his ailing son. And when juxtaposed with the non-actors, the few professional stage actors often seem superfluous when delivering key lines, and melodramatic when acting out their roles.

The screenplay is littered with all the components of a typical shoot ‘em up: the love triangle; the humble hero turned wanted vigilante; the wealthy villain; the unattainable prize, et cetera.

What is atypical are the characters’ encounters with everyday strife. Very few sets were created for the film, and every external shot was set in an existing shanty in urban Jamaica. Perry Henzell used cutaway scenes then, in much the same way Alfonso Cuarón utilizes them today in films such as Y tu mamá también. Momentarily taking the viewers out of his fictional creation and giving them an almost documentarian glimpse of the harsh realities of living in poverty. This technique is at its most obvious during the ten minute musical scene, shot as Ivan observes, rapt, one of Kingston’s major garbage dumps. The unscripted shots show the poor sifting through the unwanted debris of the rich, vultures circling low in search of carrion, as Jimmy Cliff’s haunting hit Many Rivers to Cross appropriately underscores the melancholic scene.

Each time I watch the film I walk away a little angrier. Angry at Ivan for believing the self-fulfilling prophecy, and one of the film’s more memorable lines, “The hero cyaan dead till the last reel”; angry that Perry Henzell didn’t go on to make subsequent films, and, above all, angry knowing that, chances are, the general audience will only understand half the story. They may only understand the main characters who have modified their Jamaican dialect enough for it to be understood by the average neophyte. Most likely, they will not understand that after this film there would be several real-life sequels involving the many Ivans that have wormed themselves out of the downtown Kingston woodwork from 1972 until today. They will not understand that the Kingston portrayed in the film is pretty much the same Kingston as it is today. I want them to understand.

I sometimes joke with friends about writing a The Harder They Come handbook. One that would cue viewers in to guest appearances and hidden meanings in various key scenes: The dancehall scene in which Prince Buster, one of the founders of reggae music (and, arguably, hip-hop) advises Ivan that he cannot deejay his record; the happy kids pushing juice-box toys unaware of the iniquity that prevents their parents from affording more; the scene - punctuated by a huge knife on the wrist of a thieving Ivan - that captures a vibrant produce market, an industry that modern commercialization has lain waste to. The moments that illustrate, for better or worse, that Jamaica is more than bamboo, blunts and tourist-filled beaches. Until I write this handbook, Perry Henzell’s The Harder They Come will remain, as one IMDb user puts it, “The best non-American gangster film bar none”, instead of the sociopolitical drama that it really is.

Like the picture I recently found of a much younger version of my mom sporting a floral gabardine miniskirt, a beach ball sized afro wig, and a raised ‘black power’ fist, The Harder They Come captures one of those bygone moments I am glad someone had the foresight to record. The picture of my mom is water-stained, weathered and imperfect, as is the film, but both have taught me so much about a time and a people I thought I already knew everything about.

+ also published on the Pixel Surgeon website
Read the related quick review of Rockers.