Some critics have already labelled this modern-day fable of Michael Caine’s elderly avenging angel as the British Gran Torino. Undoubtedly there are superficial similarities; Eastwood and Caine are both unwitting relics in an increasingly isolated and unfamiliar environment, forced by circumstance to lash out at the society that has alienated them in the only way they know how.
To label Harry Brown simply as a Gran Torino from across the Atlantic would be to distract from the sheer brutality on stage here. Before, Eastwood shocked through implication. Here, no punches are pulled.
Harry Brown is unashamedly Caine’s baby, as is made evident by his presence in virtually every frame. A national treasure in almost every sense of the word, even his most acclaimed performances have nonetheless been tinged by an unwanted comedic element, that much-imitated cockney charm that has so often put him at the risk of self-parody. Not here. Caine’s Brown is a construct made all the more terrifying by Caine’s everyman appeal.
Caine is assisted greatly by the more-than able supporting cast. Emily Mortimer shines as Frampton, an officer who takes a special interest in Brown’s activities, and David Bradley is effective in his role as Harry’s ill-fated friend, Leonard. Also noteworthy are the various youths that plague Brown’s estate, who include Jack O’Connell (Cook from TV’s Skins) amongst their number.
By turns chilling and horrific, even the somewhat unsatisfying ending isn’t enough to put a dampener on things. Harry Brown, whilst not up there with the likes of Get Carter, remains a deeply compelling, thought-provoking experience.
