The Class of '92

We chat about Neville(s), Scholes, Giggs, Beckham and Butt to the directors of The Class of '92.

If the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn't exist, the finest accomplishment of a filmmaker is to convince its subject that the camera isn't really there. Paul Scholes' metamorphosis from curmudgeon to comic in The Class of '92 is testimony to the fact filmmaker brothers Ben and Gabe Turner have achieved the latter. The feature length documentation of how six young lads graduated from the park to winning the FA Youth Cup in 1992 to permanently stitching their names into Manchester United's rich folklore with the treble seven years later is a joyous success. With nigh on 100 years of media training between them, by their very conditioning the recollections of Gary and Phil Neville, Ryan Giggs, Paul Scholes, David Beckham and Nicky Butt should have been more guarded than those brought before the Leveson Inquiry. Instead, what comes through is a sense that this was a story they wanted to tell. From Scholes' collection of Charlie Brown-like expressions of bemusement to Phil Neville's slow motion re-enactment of his step-over (a Bafta-worthy scene on its own - 'I'd just done the best stepovers this club had ever seen and they're wetting themsleves. I'd been practising this for six months) to Giggs' emergence as a surprisingly natural storyteller, the overall feel is traditional buddy movie even if the narrative arc stays true to the conventions of the classic sports film. The absence of either a narrator or a script is a risk on the part of the filmmakers and the trust they show in their protagonists to not fall into the footballer fail-safe mode of monotone proves inspired. Each of the six is interviewed separately but the real chemistry comes through when they are sat around the same table to share a few drinks. What could have been a nausea inducing Carling-style approximation of what it is to be male and have friends is instead genuinely funny as they quickly revert to type. 'Busy' Gary Neville concedes his limitations as a lady-wooer as a callow youth in comparison to Giggs, while Scholes remembers being locked in a tumble dryer. 'It probably brought on your asthma,' deadpans Butt. What Beckham was made to do with a Clayton Blackmore (a mahogany Welshman for those of you too young to remember the nineties) calendar as his initiation test would probably be considered bullying in these more liberal times but as Gorton-lad Butt attests with relish, 'it toughened you up'. A discussion of their favourite ever excuse given by Sir Alex Ferguson to explain why they were being dropped is another treat. It's not quite fly on the dressing room wall but it's as close as you're going to get. In many respect it's friendship - the kinship of a gang of disparate characters - that comes to the surface as much as the football. When to a man they pretty much concede those early days kicking a ball around with their mates at The Cliff were the best of their lives you're inclined to believe them. As an audience you're drawn to them as they're living out not just their own dreams, but a universal one we've all shared at one time or other. Whether it's a northern thing or due to their schooling at Old Trafford is by-the-by, but that they seem genuinely surprised at the careers they have fostered for themselves is both believable and touching. It certainly doesn't come across as faux-modesty. An absence of ego is a