There’s a thin line between gritty realism and cinematic face-planting, and These Dangerous Years spends 90 minutes wobbling on it like a drunken juggler on payday. If you ever wondered what would happen if Saturday Night Fever was filmed two decades early in a Liverpool slum—with a pop singer who could sort of act—you’re in luck. This is a movie that tries to tell you youth is dangerous, the army builds character, and moonwalking belongs in the ‘50s. It’s not a badmovie exactly—just the kind you forget is playing while you’re still watching it.
“Liverpool, But Make It Melodramatic”
Directed by Herbert Wilcox, These Dangerous Years was meant to be a rough, real portrait of Liverpool youth gone wild, only with less realism and more clumsy messaging. Anna Neagle, going solo as a producer for the first time, thought she could bottle the menace of the Dingle slums and the promise of rock ‘n’ roll into one neat package. Originally titled The Cast Iron Shore and planned for Diana Dors, the project lost its star before filming even started—because Dors was too busy conquering Hollywood (and probably doing it better than this movie would have let her).
Enter Frankie Vaughan, the pop singer with a twinkle in his eye and a fistful of catchy songs. These Dangerous Yearswas also supposed to be Vaughan’s launching pad to acting stardom, and it was… in the same way that a slingshot “launches” a rock straight into your neighbor’s window. Oh, and speaking of unexpected debuts, lurking somewhere in the background was a young David McCallum, marking his feature film debut with all the subtlety of a future NCISicon waiting for better scripts.
“Squarebashing and Early Moonwalking”
Frankie Vaughan plays Dave Wyman, a gang leader who dreams of crooning his way out of poverty but instead gets called up for National Service. Suddenly it’s all drills, sergeant majors, and heartfelt monologues about responsibility. Training turns him into a stronger man—by which I mean he looks slightly less confused while wearing an army uniform. When his best mate is killed by a camp bully, Dave naturally reacts the only way melodramatic ’50s cinema allows: dramatic revenge, crooning ballads, and marrying his duet partner.
Filming took place at Inglis Barracks, which added some faint whiff of authenticity—although not enough to overcome the script’s endless parade of recycled army jokes and heavy-handed moralizing. In an odd footnote that no one could have predicted, there’s even a scene where Vaughan and some excitable Liverpudlians bust out an early version of the moonwalk—yes, that moonwalk. Somewhere, Michael Jackson was still learning to walk upright, and Liverpool’s tough kids were already gliding backwards into history.
“Box-Office Luck, Critical Shrugs”
Critics greeted These Dangerous Years with the enthusiasm of a man realizing his pint is half foam. The Monthly Film Bulletin praised the lively Liverpool scenes before lamenting the film’s nosedive into cliché and soap opera plotting. Eddie Byrne got a few cheers for keeping the energy alive, but otherwise the consensus was: solid start, tedious finish, somebody pass the smelling salts.
Kine Weekly was kinder, suggesting the film was “definitely box-office”—the cinematic equivalent of “you’re not pretty, but you have a nice personality.” And to be fair, they weren’t wrong. The movie made its money back and then some, riding Vaughan’s pop-star appeal and a public still willing to forgive a few awkward performances if it meant toe-tapping tunes and a few dreamy slow dances.
In hindsight, These Dangerous Years occupies an odd little niche: too earnest to be cool, too sloppy to be profound, but somehow, against all odds, still watchable. It’s a movie that reminds you that British cinema in the ‘50s could stumble charmingly even when it aimed for gritty kitchen-sink drama. It also accidentally invented one of pop culture’s most iconic dance moves a quarter-century early, which frankly, deserves a slow clap on its own.
“Liverpool Got Dangerous, But Not Too Dangerous”
These Dangerous Years is like an old leather jacket found in your grandfather’s attic: it’s frayed at the edges, the lining’s a bit moldy, but there’s just enough faded cool left to make you wonder what the hell happened. It earns its three stars not because it’s a classic, but because it tried so hard to say something important—and occasionally, it even almost did.
⭐️⭐️⭐️ (3/5)
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