Living in such a corrupted community where people heavily addicted drugs, a young teenager guy named Mark Renton, who is addicted to heroin, the thing that brings terrible for him, so he once makes his mind to give up addicting it, and he receives help from his friends and his girlfriend till he manages to overcome that addiction.
The characters are without recognizable virtues, and neither they nor the movie asks us to like them. But they are full of energy and underplayed wit, endlessly picking themselves up off the filthy floor.
Trainspotting, buoyed by a great Brit Pop soundtrack and Brian Tufano's agile cinematography, captures the stoned-out, gut-churning experience of hardcore addiction with hallucinogenic acuity.
A cocktail of scuzzy charm, nerve and despair that seduces and repulses in nearly equal proportions. It packs a jolt, all right. But it leaves you with a brutal hangover, too.
Trainspotting is supercharged with sulphurous humour and brutal recklessness: it charges at you like Ewan McGregor's Renton sprinting from store detectives in the opening sequence.
Trainspotting is a searing pop-art portrait of a lost generation blowing out its brains. As they rail, chuckle, shout and dive into darkness, you're trapped yourself between a bellylaugh and a scream.
The film is about joy -- in conniving and surviving, in connecting with audiences, in its own fizzy, jizzy style. And that's why, compared with it, most other films look zombified.
What's interesting, viewing the film now, is how it manages to be both inarguably of its time, the mid 90s, but also has not dated nearly as badly as most youth culture movies tend to.
