(2001. dir: Ronny Yu) It's interesting that a film starring Samuel L Jackson (in a kilt, no less) and Robert Carlyle (both at the height of their respective hotnesses), Sean Pertwee, Rhys Ifans (who is dreadful, shouting constantly as British comics do when they can't grasp hold of anything funny in the script) and Emily Mortimer would fail to ignite into anything interesting. Granted, at this time the Lock-Stock-Snatch-etc Tarantino-offshoot, which sprang to life in the late nineties and wore thin any quality it initially had pretty quickly, and of which movement this is a hanger-on, was well onto its downhill slope.
It is also interesting that Carlyle has at least twice (here and in an infamous episode of Cracker dealing with the Hillsborough disaster) played a fanatical Liverpool fan. Alright, I find it interesting because I am a Liverpool fan, and because Carlyle, a Glaswegian, I believe actually follows Rangers.
For all the charisma and thoughtful acting onscreen, the script never lights up, the attempts at humor fail (although, to be fair, these actors carry sufficient dignity to walk past such ignominies unscathed), and the plot turns are unbelievable in so mundane a fashion that one can't be blamed for not caring.
Granted, I am not of the appropriate demographic. Two things I have never understood: shit-based humor, and why it's funny to take a gorgeous car (in this case a stunning, Liverpool-red Jaguar) and slowly decimate it through daredevil behaviour.
I don't get those things, but if you think they're funny, you might watch this movie. Jackson and Carlyle are both fully committed, and, as we all know, those two at full commitment level can be like a force of nature. Emily Mortimer is a powerhouse on her own, thoughtful and sexy, although her character delineation (unassailable assassin. "She never misses," Carlyle's character says. Also she seems to have no trouble kicking the shit out of skinheads in spite of wearing miniskirt and heels, slipping undetected to and from crime scenes while carrying enormous weapons, and seemingly accessing unending amounts of capital while simultaneously living indentured to a drug-lord for unspecified debts) is la-la land absurd.
In parting, let me lay before you one of the searing questions of modern pop culture: why does Samuel Jackson so rarely get laid onscreen, colossus of sexual charisma that he is? The first time it occurred to me was during the Long Kiss Goodnight. Why exactly did the Geena Davis character not have sex with him? Is it because her husband directed the movie? I see it scribbled here in my notes for Shaft, as well: why is Hollywood threatened by this man's sexuality?
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