It’s easy to knock Noel Clarke. The first reason, being the bright young thing of the UK film scene, he most probably has Danny Dyer’s mobile number on speed dial having starred with the feckless wonder on two occasions. Secondly, walking amoebas like Peter Andre cite him as “a hero”. Thirdly he won the Orange Rising Star BAFTA, sandwiched between unworthy victors Shia The Beef and Kristen Stewart.

So it’d be easy to knock Noel Clarke. Easy, but wrong. Look beneath the rather attractive surface and he’s actually the definition of a grafter. The youngest looking 35-year-old on God’s green Earth he has the whiff of a meteroic rise about him even if the facts speak otherwise. Stints in British shit TV staples such as Casualty, The Bill and even Doctors litter his early career until he pulled himself a Good Will Hunting and decided to write a film based on his life experiences. Success, both financial and critical, swiftly followed.
Kidulthood will have it’s detractors. It featured “Nah wat I mean bruv?” dialogue that usually ushers a reply of “Well not really my dear” from anyone outside of London who wasn’t talk to speak English via SMS and it featured the kind of dramatic teenage years that even Skins script-writers may consider a tad far-fetched. It was, if nothing else, refreshingly different.
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