Revolver film review

certificate_15

REVOLVER

The knives have been out for Guy Ritchie ever since he cast his more famous wife in the 2002 film Swept Away and created what is generally seen as one of the worst cinematic experiences of the new century. In that peculiarly unfair English way, the man who captured the zeitgeist and made one of the most successful British films of all-time with Lock, Stock now appears to be a fully-formed target for the media who are eager to bring down a director who dares to be both different and successful. His new work Revolver is not quite the cranberry sauce to accompany the turkey that was Swept Away. It's not a terrible film but the trouble is it's not that great either. This isn't down to cinematography or any effort on behalf of the cast, but rather a script that veers towards the pretentious and is one of the year's most highly confusing affairs.

We're firmly back on familiar Ritchie ground after his aberration on the beach. Characters with names such as Lord John and French Paul inhabit a neon-lit gangster world, set in an undisclosed locale that is neither Las Vegas nor Leytonstone but somewhere in-between. Into this steps Jake (Jason Statham), fresh out of prison and about to wish he was still behind bars.

It's difficult to know where to start with the plot of Revolver and this is the film's central problem - it seems that writer Ritchie, for all his skill in directing set-pieces, had little idea as well. Jake's troubles begin when his gang is wiped out and he encounters two fearsome loansharks (OutKast's Andre 3000 and Vincent Pastore) who decide to use him as their latest puppet in a number of scams they are pulling. Adding to his woes is the decidedly dodgy Macha (Ray Liotta) who spends much of the film in his underpants and shouting threats such as %u2018Fear Me'.

Instead of enlightening us on the plot, Jake's voiceover only serves to make things more complicated - first class honours to anyone who could actually explain the story from start to finish. It's also filled with portentous (and indeed pretentious) quotes about chess, gameplaying and the art of war. Devoid of humour it's often a rather morose and slow affair, but no one can deny that Ritchie is still a dab hand at style. One or two scenes, notably a finale involving a little girl forced to hide while her father is tortured, do raise the emotional interest, but it's generally hard to invest any sense of belief or identity with what is happening on screen.