A straightforward thriller – not the most demanding entertainment, but perfectly OK with popcorn and a glass of Sancerre so thoughtfully provided by my local Everyman cinema. It falls to pieces in the third act, but frankly, many films do.
That’s how I read it – but comparing my reaction to the Observer’s Mark Kermode (I never read the reviews in advance) I’ve signally failed to appreciate the exquisitely-formed “genre literacy” of the writer-directors. Ah, so it wasn’t just trying to be a simple tale well told, then – it was really a postmodern exercise in self-referential pastiche, fluidly slipping “recklessly between the gruelling, the goofy and the gory”. Hmm.
When thrillers are no longer judged by how much they thrill, but rather on their ability to manifest “wildly veering tonal jolts, flipping like a catfish on a pole as it struggles to evade genre definition” then I think it’s safe to say we’re all in trouble. Or at least, waist-high in affectation.
Fortunately, the Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw sees it more my way, concluding that it’s “disappointing and unsatisfying”. Yes, that would be the third act I mentioned above.
Worth seeing for a charismatic performance from Don Johnson; Sam Shephard is a tad too taciturn and stares longingly out of windows for most of his screen time; there’s a nasty reference to snuff porn that might disturb some folk, so be warned.
That’s how I read it – but comparing my reaction to the Observer’s Mark Kermode (I never read the reviews in advance) I’ve signally failed to appreciate the exquisitely-formed “genre literacy” of the writer-directors. Ah, so it wasn’t just trying to be a simple tale well told, then – it was really a postmodern exercise in self-referential pastiche, fluidly slipping “recklessly between the gruelling, the goofy and the gory”. Hmm.
When thrillers are no longer judged by how much they thrill, but rather on their ability to manifest “wildly veering tonal jolts, flipping like a catfish on a pole as it struggles to evade genre definition” then I think it’s safe to say we’re all in trouble. Or at least, waist-high in affectation.
Fortunately, the Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw sees it more my way, concluding that it’s “disappointing and unsatisfying”. Yes, that would be the third act I mentioned above.
Worth seeing for a charismatic performance from Don Johnson; Sam Shephard is a tad too taciturn and stares longingly out of windows for most of his screen time; there’s a nasty reference to snuff porn that might disturb some folk, so be warned.
