Higgins and Davis were chalk and cheddar: while the Irishman took drugs, smoked vigorously and brought down vodka, Davis tasted pints of milk (Gold Top, obviously). It was what the grannies got a kick out of the chance to see clean-cut and corporate amicable. The film expertly offered profundity to the character of Davis, with Merrick figuring out how to pass on a controlled stillness, as the future six-time best on the planet developed from geeky young person to sure pro.
As Higgins’ star blurred in life and on-screen, his steady self-devastation left him poverty stricken, edgy and sick Treadaway’s execution made its mark, empowering the viewer to sympathize with a tormented ability. Higgins took the picture of the game, gave it a lobotomy, pushed a snooker sign up its rear and spat it out to a clueless open. It is hard to envision the game steadily making such dramatization again – he was the “general population’s champion” and this felt like a tender eulogy.