Right from the first f**kin' moment, I f**kin' knew I wasn't going to like this f**kin' film. Apart from Samuel L. f**kin' Jackson in the lead role trying something a little different - wearing a f**kin' kilt for a start - every other actor was cast to f**kin' type. Carlyle is cast, once again, as the cheeky yet violently psy-f**kin'-chotic rogue, even Ricky Tomlinson's fumbling, inept businessman, albeit drug-dealer, is so f**kin' predictable. Rhys Ifans is like a wide-eyed apprentice of Carlyle�s, and has inherited the stereotype with f**kin ease.
Accents bounce all over the f**kin' Atlantic and the general scally dialect is so varied in an "I don�t need a f**kin� dialect coach" kind of way, that scallies throughout the north must have been laughing as hard as cockneys did at Dick Van Dyke in Meary Poppuns. As a British located film trying tu f**kin' emulate Hollywood action thrillers, it's about as close as anyone has f**kin' managed - but it still doesn't make the credibility stakes like Sexy f**kin' Beast did. Maybe getting onboard big names like Jackson, Carlyle and Meat f**kin' Loaf was an attempt to rival the multi-million dollar casts in US blockbusters, but it fails badly.
Having slagged it to f**k so far, it does have a quaintness - probably not exactly what Ronnie Yu wants to hear, but f**k him. I hate to slag off Brit-flicks, but when they set themselves up so blatantly with f**kin� stereotypes (apparently black men have huge willies) and then try to emulate US action movies instead of finding a filmic style of their own, what f**kin� choice do I have? Oh, and there was rather a lot of unnecessary swearing as well � and the argument about realism got thrown out of the proverbial first floor window with the introduction of the characters.
Now, f**k off, you bunch of p*ssin� w**kers. |
