Small time crook
finds himself looking after a child. If this was an American film, Adam Sandler
or Ben Stiller would probably discover some sort of emotional loveliness and
give up their criminal ways by the end.
Thankfully it's British, so instead of that fluffy arse-wash, lots of
people call each other 'Cunt!' in alleyways.
John Travolta plays a
chap who looks much like a strange hybrid of daytime telly dickwit Nick Knowles and one of the
Tweenies, in a wig:
Anyway, after his wife
gets murdered, he goes after the people responsible, all the way from the lowly
street thugs (facial tattoos, drink from bottles) to bent cops (unshaven,
crooked tie, hip flask) and finally a corrupt politician (cufflinks, constantly
drinking whisky with ice in a nice glass) and all levels of mid-rank goonery
Travolta is backed up
by loyal sidekick played by Christopher Meloni who not only out acts him, but is far, far
more credible in the action scenes. With the roles reversed, this coulda been a
half decent pile of action nonsense, as it is, it's fairly poo.
The Cohen brothers'
films are like watching 100 minutes of concentrated Guardian articles. Not the
good ones, where they do actual journalism, but the old shite where some ponce
babbles on for five hundred words about how a new brand of ethical wristwatch
offers the wearer a connection with Inuit tribes or some bollocks.
As in any outwardly
good intentions are lost in the fog of self-satisfaction and lofty smugness.
So, yeah, if you'll
excuse me, I'm off to watch Zombie Tit-Robots 2 or whatever bollocks we sit
Some young folk
making a documentary get more than they bargained for when some guy locks them
in his basement and starts getting murdery after he mistakes them for employees
of the local Evilcorp who killed his kid ten years before.
With a better script,
this could've been half decent as the acting and production values are up to
par and whatnot, but it substitutes the nuance it needs with tedious torture
porn bollocks instead. Ho hum.