44 Inch Chest is the new shouty, faakin’, Cock-er-nee tear up from the writers of Sexy Beast. There are enough “f***s” and “c***s” to make an Amsterdam stag party blush, a heavy dose of East End ribaldry and plenty of bone-cracking and blood-spilling to lightly scratch the itch of a certain kicking-out time demographic. It also stars two very, very fine actors from that earlier film, Ray Winstone and Ian McShane. But that, sadly, that is where any similarity ends, for where Sexy Beast (bolstered by one the most captivating performances in recent British film history, by Ben Kingsley) was a beautifully structured, intriguing and often tender exploration of masculinity, violence, loyalty and betrayal, 44 Inch Chest, while aspiring to something similar, feels distinctly undercooked. The ingredients are there or thereabouts – Winstone’s Colin is betrayed by his wife (Joanne Whalley) for a younger man and, urged on and abetted by his coterie of hard men associates (John Hurt, Tom Wilkinson, Stephen Dillane, MacShane), they kidnap his love rival and undertake a prolonged and detailed exercise in emotional rehabilitation through violence – but the film never really takes off. It feels, for all its visceral energy, strangely static.
In its favour, Winstone is magnificent as ever. There are very few actors who can pull off such fraught inner-turmoil, a heady mix of sensitivity, innocence, confusion and extreme violence, with quite the same conviction. His screen presence is alarmingly intense and his delivery, jumbling rapid-fire, staccato despair with drawn out and prolonged agony, a man completely unable to express himself, is beautifully nuanced. While his character fails ultimately to live up to his promise, Winstone is clearly an actor at the very top of his game. McShane, too, is magnificent as a sinister, homosexual gangster boss, a Pinter-esque figure calmly and menacingly pulling the strings from the corner of the room in which much of the drama is set. And in that room, other than the disappointing script, lies one of the film’s main problems: it all feels very “stagey” and so, from a cinematic perspective, very limited. Whereas other “theatrical” films, such the David Mamet-scripted formidable Glengarry Glen Ross, excel precisely because they are so tightly written, the characters so finely realised and the pace pitch-perfect, here there is simply not enough at the heart of the narrative, enough spark, to keep the film moving forward. There are no interesting puzzles or plot devices to maintain momentum and while the characters are, broadly, an intriguing bunch they are nowhere nearly fascinating enough to sustain an entire film.
This is a great shame because amongst all the relentless machismo, swearing and bus pass cockney bravado there really is much more interesting film pushing to get out. Like Sexy Beast it is one of loyalty and love, of men testing the boundaries of friendship and exploring the lengths that they might go to protect their extraordinary brand of honour. Here, however, it is too cartoonish, too bluntly finished to be anything other than only mildly interesting or entertaining and ultimately all we are really left with is a group of faakin’ ‘ard old geezers shoutin’ and yellin’ and whackin’ people. Which, even with some brilliant star turns, makes it if not dull then just a little tired.
ndeigman
1 month, 3 weeks ago
What a faultless review of this film.
Watching it, I tried to persuade myself that the lack of energy between the characters was intentional… showing a gang of men slowly realising that they are more pathetic than powerful. But you soon realise that this is not the case; the lack of energy stems from the lack of any conviction to explore the alluring web of emotional themes lying beneath the surface. It is, as you say, just a bunch of faakin’ geezers ‘avin it out with a ‘ponce.’
And I felt the need to turn my head whenever John Hurt descended into one of his contrived ‘c**t’ monologues… i felt so embarrassed for that icon of British drama. I felt awkward watching it.