Introduction:
There are films celebrated for their artistry, and others remembered simply because they exist. Take Me High — the 1973 musical comedy marking Cliff Richard’s final major cinematic outing — falls firmly into the latter category. Yet, for all its flaws, it stands today as one of the most fascinating accidental time capsules of Birmingham’s turbulent post-war evolution.
The film opens with a striking descent from the M6 into Aston: a rain-soaked Spaghetti Junction, faded Mini Clubmans, and factory rooftops stretching like a tired industrial tapestry. Nechells Power Station looms from the background, its soot-darkened towers occupying the land that modern visitors would now recognise as Star City. Within minutes, we are in the car with Cliff — or rather Tim Matthews, a London banker banished, against his will, to Birmingham. His grim declaration — “I’ve got to face it — face Birmingham!” — sets the tone for a narrative as bewildered about its own purpose as its protagonist is about his new assignment.
Though released as a romantic musical comedy, Take Me High is far more interesting as a sociological artefact. Backlit by Herbert Manzoni’s merciless urban redevelopment, it immortalises a Birmingham scarred, rebuilt and reshaped — still determined to display optimism beneath a Brutalist exterior. While the film’s storyline is thin — a banker unexpectedly sent to Birmingham who ends up inventing a burger empire called “Brumburger” — its true power lies in its incidental framing. The long shots of Gas Street Basin before regeneration, the walk across a pre-Pagoda Pagoda Island, the half-finished dreams of 1970s planning — these visuals are, for many, more memorable than any melody.
Cliff Richard himself barely acknowledges the film in his 2020 autobiography The Dreamer, labelling it only “an interesting film.” That understatement might hint at deeper embarrassment; the film marked the conclusion of his cinematic career, following the lukewarm reception of earlier ventures. By the time Take Me High premiered at Birmingham’s ABC Cinema in December 1973, reviewers were relentless. The Guardian likened the movie to “a large basinful of pink blancmange,” and the Daily Mirror declared it did “nothing for Birmingham — and even less for Cliff Richard.”
Still, where critics sneered, time has been unexpectedly generous. Today, screenings like those hosted at The Mockingbird draw audiences not for the narrative, but for its living-museum quality. Brummies turn up not to judge Cliff’s acting, but to whisper, “Look — the Ringway Centre!” or “That’s the Bull Ring before it changed!” As artist Dean Kelland reflects, watching the film is a journey to “the Birmingham I grew up in,” wrapped in a Brutalist landscape now rapidly disappearing beneath glass and redevelopment.
Take Me High endures because it invites the viewer to project their own meaning. Is its Birmingham ugly, or ambitious? A relic, or a dream? Like Cliff Richard’s own career — dented, but never defeated — the film is stubbornly unforgettable. Should you stumble upon a charity-shop DVD or a late-night screening, don’t turn away. It may be off-kilter, but, like the city it unwittingly immortalises, it has great bits — and it fits Brum well.