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Withnail & I: Britain's best film? Twenty years? For those of mature years who love Withnail & I, the real surprise of that anniversary figure is that it has only been two decades since Bruce Robinson's raffish masterpiece was first released on our screens. Was it really as recently as the early 1. Withnail's eloquent spleen and hauteur, Marwood's (that is, "I"s) timidity and homophobic panic, Uncle Monty's suave and fruity libidinousness?

That we had no idea what a Camberwell Carrot might be? That someone could say "we want the finest wines available to humanity" or "get in the back of the van" without provoking a knowing, complicitous laugh from the initiated? Surely we have known all these things as long as we've known, say, Falstaff or Oliver Twist or Daffy Duck? Adore it or deride it - and there are, to be sure, still plenty of people who simply don't see the point, and think that the movie is no more than a tiresome confection of drug jokes and poor slapstick - Withnail & I obviously casts a very unusual spell over its devotees. It is perhaps the truest of all so- called cult movies, not only because it seizes the imaginations of the faithful with unparalleled force, but because its status is almost wholly the product of enduring audience loyalty, not of clever marketing strategies. On its first release, when it was reviewed with intelligent sympathy (The Independent and The Financial Times were the only dissenters), no one could reasonably have predicted that it would mature quite so triumphantly.

In the 2. 1st century, though, Withnail has already begun to migrate from the lists of "Top Cult Films" to those of "Best British Films". Tomorrow, the world? It is a curious fate for a movie which, to the disenchanted eye, looks about as action- packed and fun as a wet Saturday afternoon at Samuel Beckett's gaff. The nararative runs something like this. Act One: our two heroes, unemployed and possibly unemployable actors, while away their empty days and nights in a once- grand Camden flat with such intoxicants as they can afford.

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Menaced by drunken thugs and a drugged- up dealer called Danny, they decide to borrow a country cottage from Withnail's rich, eccentric, gay uncle Monty. Act Two: they head for the Lake Distict, replacing urban squalor with rural squalor, and are now menaced by a bull and a belligerent, possibly murderous poacher. Monty arrives unexpectedly, tries and fails to seduce Marwood. Act Three: they come back to London. Withnail is arrested for drunk driving.

• Two 'resting' actors living in a squalid Camden Flat - and living off a diet of booze and pills - take a trip to a country house (belonging to Withnail’s uncle) to.
• Withnail & I: Britain's best film. and think that the movie is no more than a tiresome confection of drug jokes and poor. "Always full of women staring out.

Marwood lands a good job. They part, their friendship obviously over. The End. Try pitching that one to Dreamworks and see how far you get.

In fact, as Bruce Robinson pointed out, the structure is that of the classic three- acter as outlined by Ring Lardner. Act One: Send a man up a tree. Act Two: Throw rocks at him. Act Three: Bring him down.) It is evidently not pulse- pounding excitment which has earned Withnail its place in the cinematic pantheon, so what are the sources of its appeal? Let's start with the booze. Watch The Meteor Man Online here. It was James Brown, the editor of Loaded magazine, who first put on public record the fact that Withnail had encouraged all manner of riotous behaviour among "lads", and above all the famous drinking game in which participants have to line up a prodigious row of tipples, run the video or DVD and match Withnail's on- screen guzzling drink for drink - including, for the real hard core, his swig of lighter fluid. Has anyone ever lashed out on a bottle of Margaux '5.

Withnail in his valedictory swigs? Letters, please.) The sheer, liver- blitzing quantities of Withnail's alcohol consumption - "I demand to have some booze!" - and the film's uncensorious attitude to piss- artistry automatically win the film affection among the drinking classes. Especially younger members of the drinking classes. Which leads to a slightly more sober point. Withnail & I is the ne plus ultra of student films, both in that students adore it (you can bet your last farthing that this very weekend, British undergraduates who were either unborn or gurgling at their mother's teat when it opened in the West End will be roaring along to it for the first time) and that it is by far the best representation of student life in British cinema; maybe in world cinema.

True, neither of our heroes is a student any more - indeed, they are both rapidly approaching 3. But the authetic texture of student life at its most horrible - the manky digs, the uncertain friendships, the wilful neglect of hygiene and health, the binges, the cold and damp, the free- floating anxiety and directionlessness - none of these has ever been caught with such dismaying yet hilarious precision. The cinema bulges with movies about college japes - especially American college japes - but it took a low- budget English film about washed- up actors to capture for good and all the dark side of that protracted adolescence which is the ambiguous privilege of young people in rich countries. To dwell unduly on the aspects of the film which most appeal to the lager and varsity gangs, though, is to slight its many other virtues.

When I wrote an essay on Withnail for the BFI Modern Classics series a few years ago, I took the opportunity to experiment, and show the film to as many different types of audience as possible. Again, not everyone was seduced - particularly American viewers, who often found the accents impenetrable.

One charming couple from Massachussetts, in their early 5. Most succumbed willingly: the teenage kid with Asperger's Syndrome, who played air guitar to the Jimi Hendrix songs on the soundtrack, and summed up the film as "good"; the retired Oxford Kantian who carefully explained to me that Margaux '5. Withnail contends, the finest of the century; the dying homme de lettres who considered it all perfectly delightful, and asked wistfully if there were any other films in the same vein? Alas, no. But my little sampling, unscientific as it was, did confirm what I had long suspected: that the raucous, booze- along Saturday night favourite of the Loaded crowd was also quite suitable for reflective Sunday viewing, too. The New England couple who read the film as profoundly sad were not altogether wide of the mark: strip it of its wonderful linguistic richness and you have a film about, inter alia, the threat and reality of failure; lovelessness (there are no romantic possiblities for our boys, and poor Uncle Monty's lust remains unslaked); not- so- genteel poverty; the loss of idealism and youthful hope; the decay of friendship. In an early draft of the screenplay, Robinson had Withnail commit suicide with a shotgun, then rightly had second thoughts: when Withnail bows to the wolves and walks away, we know all too well that he is walking away from life.

Nor is the melancholy reserved for the film's final scenes: it suffuses the whole thing. Robinson said that he knew he had the emotional key to his story when he heard King Curtis playing his lyrical, jazzy interpretation of "A Whiter Shade of Pale". This is the music we hear at the start of the film, as we watch "I" suffering an amphetamine- induced anxiety attack.

It was recorded live at the Fillmore West concert hall, and later that evening the musician was stabbed to death in the car park. Curtis didn't know it, but he had been performing an elegy for himself.

The elegaic tone persists through all the rough comedy, since this is a film about all manner of endings: the end of the 1.