I said this before, and I will say it again: Guy Ritchie caught a case of Madonna. Fucking kabbalah.
I loved Guy Ritchie. Watching Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, it’s a fucking adrenaline rip through seven thousand different characters saddled with names straight from the Catalogue du Dick Tracy Names, jabbering in this brain-frying patois in accents all over the ol’ British Isle, and intersecting like the final scene in True Romance. Then Snatch, which reminds you why Brad Pitt was awesome before Angelina had him turn in his balls (and frankly, can you blame him?). It just upped the ante.
When he married Madonna, I was concerned. But then when you have Vinnie Jones pause as he’s brutally abusing a dude in a car, and turn up “Lucky Star” on the radio, and say, “I fucking love this song!” I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a quick nod to the Madge, and I’m all about that. I love when directors throw in nods to their other films, like a payoff for following their careers. It is my reason for my unabashed and unapologetic manlove for Kevin Smith.
Then came Swept Away. Oh, shit. Oh, hairy shit.
I just assumed Guy Ritchie would continue to be the co-signer on all of Madonna’s African infant abductions for the remainder of his days. Then I heard Revolver. On paper, it sounded intriguing. I love Jason Statham, but only because of Guy Ritchie. Ray Liotta has his moments, and the man is going to get his Kurt Russellesque turn in something soon enough. And Andre Benjamin is proving that, like Justin Timberlake, he can throw down if given the opportunity. (Side Note: has anyone else noticed that Timberlake plays an awful lot of Gulf War Veterans? Weird.)
Then I read further. Apparently, Revolver is to Kabbalah what Battlefield Earth was to Scientology. Go ahead, re-read that sentence. Can you see what’s wrong with that statement? Cause apparently, Guy Ritchie cannot. And I will admit, the concept of Kabbalah intrigues me. If I sell out, and go for a Hollywood religion, this will probably be the harp I pluck. Of course, my knowledge of it is fleeting, and I adhere only to religions that rank you according to hat size, so my conversion will remain to be seen. A text on Kabbalah will no doubt be included in my personal betterment reading list.
So in spite of that, and in spite of numerous reviews from people who had seen it saying it was garbage, in spite of the fact that Vinnie Jones is nowhere to be seen, in spite of the fact that it was delayed release in America by something like fucking two years, IN SPITE of all of that, I thought, well, I should at least give it a try. I mean, at least it’s not two hours of his slag wife rolling around on a beach in a bikini.
Oh, Pajiba, how I should have listened to you.
The plot gets wrapped up around itself like some sort of flying python in every kids action cartoon. It eventually chokes itself off until its sputtering and falling short of the bite on the Powerpuff Girls. I would explain it, but to do that, I would have to understand just exactly what the fuck was going on. But here goes. I think Jason Statham plays a man who went to prison for seven years for…something. Had this something been properly explained, even as a throw-away one line of exposition, I’d be down. But it’s not. Somehow Ray Liotta owes him lots of money, which he makes back, but then goes and gives it to this team of loan sharks played by Andre Benjamin and Big Pussy from the Sopranos. But there’s some sort of overall mastermind gangster called Mr. Gold, and then…um, money keeps changing hands, and people get killed. But not always. And then Jason Statham talks to himself, and so does Ray Liotta, and this is all about Kabbalah and then number 13, and oh, my eyes have gone crossed.
I appreciate what message Guy Ritchie was trying to conveigh, and it’s a message I believe in, and it’s a good message. I am all for mixing up a message in the packaging of high action and comedy. Bully. But it just got so fucking convoluted in his stylization that it worked against him. There are a lot of interior monologues over fast cuts of people screaming and looking scared. Which is normally to be expected in a Guy Ritchie film, this music video storytelling, but which is also why it gets fucked up. Guy Ritchie didn’t know how to make a Guy Ritchie film anymore. Case in point, if I am to understand correctly, and when the fucking CREDITS confuse you, then you know you’re properly fucked, and there are too many commas in this sentence, Guy Ritchie wrote the script, then Luc Besson adapted his script, and then Guy Ritchie directed it. Maybe probably.
The cast was actually really disappointing. Not that they aren’t good at their parts, it’s just that for a Guy Ritchie film, their parts aren’t that good. Jason Statham did his boy a favor, a big one, one that might cost him parts down the road (unless he wants to keep Transportering it up, then go Team Venture). The rest of the cast is made up of people who probably signed on because they heard it was a Guy Ritchie film. Which is all of our mistakes.
There are undoubtedly red herrings slapping you in the face at every turn. And everyone keeps repeating this fucking mantra ad nauseum. Yes, we get it, we get your spiritual message, we get your clever chess metaphors. But seriously, it’s the plot that actually fucks up the movie. They literally had to make one Tyler Durdenesque twist, and all would have been well (and by making that claim I have probably spoiled the movie for you, but frankly, the movie will spoil itself for you soon enough). It just got so goddamn confusing by the end of it, and I didn’t see much of the point by the time the pretentious pseudo-psychobabble credits roll.
It’s not that I didn’t get it. It’s just that I didn’t fucking care. Oh, Guy Ritchie, please come back to us. Get that fucking red cord out from around your throat and make sweet cinematic rough sex with us again. But seriously, wait until this comes out on DVD, and even then, take it with lots of alcohol.
