Baby Driver Review

Sleek and exhilarating, Baby Driver is a wholly original heist movie for the Spotify generation – an unadulterated treat for the eyes and ears.

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Baby Driver feels like the culmination of director Edgar Wright’s career so far – as if every film he’s ever made had been in some way preparing him for this spellbinding climax. With the shell of a chase movie and the heart of a romance, Baby Driver is as exciting in its surface as it is rewarding in its depth. With a clear reverence for action cinema, the film pays homage to a different genre classic at every turn, from Walter Hill’s The Driver to Kathryn Bigelow’s Point Break, but the final product feels refreshingly original. For anyone who’s ever felt joy or love, it’s not to be missed, and should be seen at a cinema with the highest quality speakers available.

At its core, Baby Driver is structured around a series of sensational heist sequences, while an eclectic soundtrack provides an ever-present bed of diegetic pop tunes. Ansel Elgort stars as Baby, a young getaway driver in debt to the criminal underworld and armed with a fully loaded iPod. Thanks to Wright’s heartfelt script and typically slick direction, what may sound like a one-note revision of the crime genre is given real emotional weight, and I’m not ashamed to say that I shed a tear or two along the way. Fundamentally, its cinema at its most affecting; an elegantly coordinated symphony of sound and visuals to stimulate the senses and satisfy the soul.

Clocking in at slightly under two-hours, Baby Driver thunders past at a breakneck pace, never losing momentum nor coherence. The opening chase sequence is an adrenaline-fuelled masterclass in vehicular ballet, and stakes are continually heightened with each successive action set piece. The stunt coordination, whether on two feet or four wheels, is consistently impressive, and there’s an obvious reliance on practical effects and choreography which brings a palpable sense of weight and peril. Some sequences bring to mind the exhilarating physicality of William Friedkin’s The French Connection or John Frankenheimer’s Ronin, and they act as the perfect antidote for a generation raised on Fast and Furious.

The opening chase sequence is an adrenaline-fuelled masterclass in vehicular ballet

Of course, to focus solely on the action would be to ignore a script which is as hilarious as it is moving. Much of this success hangs on the shoulders of Ansel Elgort, who provides an enigmatic presence at the centre of the film. His near-mute exterior quickly gives way to a character of depth and warmth, particularly when faced with a love interest in the shape of Lily James’ Debora. The chemistry between these two performances is electrifying, and grounds the film in some satisfyingly human drama. Indeed, the action always functions as an extension of their story, meaning that character development is never lost amongst the clamour of engines, wheels, and gunfire.

The supporting cast, meanwhile, are pitch perfect at every turn. Jamie Foxx stands out as Bats, a ruthless career criminal who operates without fear or moral scruple. He makes for a terrifying and commanding presence, reminiscent of Joe Pesci’s Oscar-winning turn as Tommy DeVito in Goodfellas. Kevin Spacey similarly captivates in his most energetic big-screen appearance in years as Doc, the charismatic crime boss who coerces Baby into one last job. This collection of shady cohorts is rounded off by John Hamm and Eiza González as married couple and partners-in-crime, Buddy and Darling. It may be a somewhat cartoonish interpretation of Atlanta’s crime scene, but this heightened reality never comes at the cost of a sense of danger.

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Attention must be given Baby Driver’s soundtrack, as it weaves itself into the fabric of almost every scene. The film’s central conceit – that all the music is heard through Baby’s iPod – never falls into the realm of gimmickry, and the role of the music is given proper justification by the script. Curated from Wright’s favourite tracks, the score ranges from classic hits to deeper album cuts, but each one complements the action perfectly. Anyone familiar with the recent Guardians of the Galaxy films, or the final pub brawl in Wright’s Shaun of the Dead, will understand the intended effect, but Baby Driver sees the music take on a far greater prominence within both the action and the story. It works to establish a unique tone which sets the film apart from its forbears, and it’s a rare pleasure to see a police chase accompanied by The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion.

Baby Driver, then, is Edgar Wright’s most mature and ambitious film yet, perhaps occasionally too ambitious. González is given relatively little to do in her role as the gun-toting Darling, acting primarily as a foil for her on-screen husband, and the third act occasionally drifts into incredulity. But the film exercises a charm which is irresistible, and it’s difficult not to be swept up by the wit and spectacle of its execution. After a delightfully violent climax, Baby Driver will leave you elated and exhausted. A delightful serving of escapist entertainment with its head firmly screwed on, this is a heist movie like you’ve never quite seen before.

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Hacksaw Ridge Review

Occasionally rousing but mostly unexceptional, Mel Gibson’s battlefield drama is a confused tour of war movie clichés.

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Andrew Garfield as Desmond Doss. Copyright 2017 Lionsgate.

When Stephen Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan was released in 1998, it revolutionised the modern war film. It was by no means the best that the genre had to offer, but the first to convincingly capture the shattering sights and sounds of the battlefield. Spielberg launched a generation of imitators, from Ridley Scott’s Black Hawk Down to David Ayer’s Fury. Following in the same tradition, Mel Gibson has returned to the director’s chair with Hacksaw Ridge, a bloody and visceral tale of courage in the face of incomprehensible horror. Ultimately it’s a messy, if ambitious, film which stumbles upon moments of greatness in an otherwise by-the-numbers tale of the Pacific war.

Hacksaw Ridge focuses on the remarkable true story of Desmond Doss (Andrew Garfield), a profoundly religious young man who enlists in the US Army during the Second World War but refuses to carry a weapon into battle. We follow his journey from small-town Virginia to the battlefields of Okinawa, where his bravery as a combat medic made him the first conscientious objector to be awarded the Congressional Medal of Honour.

From its opening frames to the biblical final shot, Hacksaw Ridge is laughably heavy-handed, which is not always a terrible thing. The central cast of characters, including Garfield’s Doss, are all fairly one-note, but just about well-drawn enough to be worth investing in. Dialogue is consistently on the nose and the soundtrack is always sure to remind the viewer how they should be feeling. It’s compelling enough and never quite insults the viewer’s intelligence, but don’t expect to be dealing with complex moral dilemmas.

Structurally, the film is split very clearly into two halves, spending time to introduce Doss’s home life before he ships off to the Pacific. This first portion of the film follows a series of familiar clichés, all of which call to mind other, better films. There’s a portrayal of a naïve young romance which would feel at home in The Notebook, so suffocating is the layer of schmaltz. Then comes a brutal boot-camp training sequence, borrowing heavily from Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket but accompanied by an extra side of cheese. Following this, the film even collapses into a predictable court-room drama for an inexplicable ten minutes. These early vignettes aren’t poorly done, but disappointingly simplistic; it feels perfunctory and a little bit useless, as if Gibson is itching to get the boring stuff over with before the violence starts.

And blimey, does it start. More or less from the moment the film shifts to Okinawa is the audience thrown into the maelstrom of battle. The carnage and bloodshed of war are represented here in unrelenting detail. Desperate young men are riddled with bullets and blown to pieces with abandon, while the camera repeatedly switches to slow motion as squads of Japanese soldiers are engulfed in flames. At times, these combat sequences feel like they would be more at home in a horror film, and it’s to Gibson’s credit that he creates such an overbearing sense of confusion and dread. His obsession with graphic violence, exemplified in his previous work from Braveheart to The Passion of the Christ, remains as present as ever, but it’s just nauseating enough to avoid feeling pornographic. At its best, Hacksaw Ridge features some of the most impressive reproductions of war ever put to film, which is why it’s such a shame when it falls into incredulous moments of action movie cliché. A superfluous duel with a Japanese sniper is just one forgettable encounter which feels tonally incongruous with the rest of the film, and it diminishes the otherwise immersive effect.

Despite its eccentric protagonist, then, Hacksaw Ridge is relentlessly conventional. Gibson clearly has a story to tell, and he does so without complication or restraint. Punctuated by spells of excellence and a convincing central performance (Garfield’s Oscar nomination is well deserved), Hacksaw Ridge is a worthy entry in the war movie annals, but as a whole it fails to move far beyond mediocrity.

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“Drama is Conflict” – A Barry Lyndon Retrospective

Barry Lyndon is a powerful reflection on eighteenth century life and the fallibility of the human condition.

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Ryan O’Neal as Redmond Barry, later Barry Lyndon. Copyright 1975 Warner Bros.

It has become something of a cliché to refer to Barry Lyndon as “overlooked”. For any number of reasons, Stanley Kubrick’s 1976 masterpiece appears to have escaped the general acclaim that follows many of his other films, at least outside of critical circles. Nevertheless, it remains one of my all-time favourites. Cinematography, music, and editing all combine to produce a spectacular film of unparalleled beauty. Now in its fortieth year, the picture is receiving a cinema re-release across the country. This, one hopes, will do something to redress its relative obscurity.

Barry Lyndon is often criticised as being about nothing in particular. It may be very beautiful, they say, but why should we care about Redmond Barry himself? Such arguments, however, depend on the assumption that we are supposed to care about him. But Barry’s life is not one of any real significance. Watching him drift through existence is almost a voyeuristic act; he fights battles, beds women, and cheats at cards, as if in a series of paintings, but we are never invested in his travels, nor do we understand his passions and motivations. He remains impenetrable.

This is no mistake. As we study Barry, our struggle to comprehend him prevents us from feeling either sympathy or detestation. Kubrick himself said that cinema is unique as an art form in that it provides an “objective reality”, an unvarnished vision of life, supported in Barry Lyndon by an impartial, third-person narrator. Barry’s experiences are presented at face value, which, despite great sound and fury, amount to very little. As if we are appreciating a Gainsborough portrait, what we see is what he get.

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Copyright 1975 Warner Bros.

If you are able to detach yourself from grasping the central character, however, then Barry Lyndon is about a great deal. Despite its title, the film isn’t really concerned with its characters – they exist to serve a much wider narrative. Fundamentally, it is a story that hinges on conflict. The world of the film, and Barry’s life itself, is defined by conflict – of the heart, the head, and the sword. Obviously, the picture begins during the Seven Years’ War; a destructive struggle fought on a global scale, which the narrator tells us would take “a great philosopher and historian” to explain. Barry finds himself fighting for two different armies in this campaign, and he is seen to commit acts of great bravery and cowardice. If Kubrick has a central message, perhaps it is that life is too frustrating and paradoxical to be understood in broad strokes.

As soon as Barry escapes the war, the inferno of battle is repeatedly supplanted by another form of conflict. At first he is a spy for the Prussian government, before changing sides and conspiring with his intended target. Again, Barry is presented as an individual with whom allegiances are as quickly made as they are broken, a man who is never contented and always seeks another path. Ultimately, it is this internal conflict that will contribute to both his rise and his downfall.

Barry is quickly made a free man, and he uses this new volition to seek out fresh quarrels on his journey to prosperity. He competes for the affection of Lady H Lyndon, a married woman of great status and wealth. While this battle appears to have been won with the timely demise of Lady Lyndon’s husband, Barry finds a new enemy in the oedipal devotion of her son, Lord Bullingdon. It is never quite clear who is the more responsible party in this dreadful feud, but Barry, whose life has thus far been a series of struggles, is only able to fight fire with fire.

Of course, not all of Barry’s conflicts are self-afflicted. In the latter part of the film, he is set upon by a timeless and altogether less palpable enemy – class. Despite his continued efforts to rise above his station, Barry remains, as Lord Bullingdon puts it, an “Irish upstart”. He is unable to reconcile his tumultuous past with his newfound position, reaching a devastating climax as he lashes out violently, and publicly, against Bullingdon. For the assembled congregation of gentry, Barry is a discordant outsider.

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Copyright 1975 Warner Bros.

For a film so rooted in conflict, it is appropriate that Barry Lyndon is bookended by two pistol duels. During the final, disastrous confrontation, many of the film’s predominant themes are exposed. Barry clearly hails from a different world to that of his opponent, Bullingdon; a world of hardship rather than privilege, and brutality rather than manners. Nevertheless, he faces the duel with more honour and courage than his high-born enemy could ever muster. As Barry fights with equal parts defiance and mercy, Bullingdon is a snivelling and pathetic sight – the premature discharge of his pistol is an unsubtle, emasculatory metaphor. Here, conflict is again used to highlight the inconsistency of the human condition.

Of Barry Lyndon, Kubrick stated that “drama is conflict”. Conflict raises Barry into the immense fortune that he desires, and conflict brings this ideal world crashing down around him. While it may be difficult to empathise with, or even to understand the film’s characters, their individual battles offer a window into eighteenth century life – its culture, its prejudices, and its hypocrisies. Not only do they seek conflict, but they inhabit a world in which conflict seeks them. Conflict propels them forward, encouraging both humanity and ruthlessness, but also stops them dead in their tracks. Put simply, Barry Lyndon is not a film about characters, but what happens to those characters. Our role is not as jurors or judges, but spectators.

 

For anyone interested in reading more about Barry Lyndon, Stanley Kubrick was interviewed by Michel Ciment following the film’s release. Available here, the interview details some of Kubrick’s ideas and processes, as well as some interesting trivia about the making of the film.

Life on Film – Tokyo Story and Boyhood

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Tokyo Story (1953)

I recently watched Yasujirō Ozu’s Tokyo Story (1953) for the first time. It’s an interesting and quite slow paced portrayal of life in post-war Japan, telling the story of an elderly couple visiting their grown children in Tokyo. Although there’s little in the way of plot, the film masterfully contrasts the hurried indifference of a new generation with that of the old Japan – through the experience of a single family, Ozu captures a moment of transition for all of Japanese society.

While watching the film, I found myself drawing comparison to a much more recent picture; Richard Linklater’s Boyhood (2014). Filmed intermittently over a 12-year period, Boyhood chronicles over a decade in the life of a single boy, from elementary school to university. While the backdrop of these two films would struggle to be more different, both Boyhood and Tokyo Story attempt to capture and portray life as it truly happens, without a strictly structured plot or the usual embellishments of cinema – they simply provide a snapshot of the human experience. The two films were also critically acclaimed; Tokyo Story was rated as the greatest film of all time in the 2012 Sight and Sound Directors’ poll, while Boyhood has the rare honour of a perfect 100 score on metacritic.

Despite the acclaim, Boyhood is a film I have never been able to get behind – on both of my viewings I’ve found myself achingly bored. I’ll accept that my opinion resides within the minority, but Boyhood is an interminably dull tale of very normal things happening to a slim selection of non-characters. What’s more, every shot is framed in a flat, televisual style which, as far as I can see, is devoid of any real craft or cinematic value. As a result, it’s difficult to engage with the film on either a technical or an emotional level, and I find myself longing for an injection of melodrama. Indeed, my criticisms of Boyhood were only accentuated by the achievements of Tokyo Story.

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Boyhood (2014)

The essential success of Tokyo Story is that Ozu is able to take life and make it worth watching. Although the film is heavy on dialogue, it’s always staged in a visually interesting manner, disposing of the typical shot-reverse-shot approach and confidently breaking the 180-degree rule to bring the audience closer. Moreover, it consistently feels like the events on screen, no matter how mundane, have a point to them; the characters and their separate stories all contribute to an understanding of Japanese society as a whole, giving you something palpable to take away from the experience. The existence of this over-arching narrative means that Ozu’s social-realist approach is anchored to a story that is worth telling.

Boyhood, on the other hand, fails to be anything more than a series of events occurring, and the result is a film that’s crushingly dull. It may have taken twelve years to make (and the advertising wouldn’t let you forget it), but I fail to see how this contributes anything when the aging characters are such uninteresting husks. Admittedly, Linklater’s long production time is a technical triumph, allowing the audience to experience the passage of time in a way that feels tangible, but it’s impact is hollow against a script that is devoid of genuine drama or effective character development.

In recording reality, Linklater appears to have forgotten the essential truth that most people go to cinema to escape the depressing reality of life, not watch it unfold over an excruciating two-hour-forty-minute period. Of course, a realist approach can be a powerful storytelling tool, ably illustrated by Tokyo Story, but Boyhood has none of the artistic weight or social commentary that makes Ozu’s film so valuable. Much like the visual effects of today’s comic-book sequels, the realism of Boyhood is undeniably impressive, presenting life itself with a plainness rarely seen. Underneath, however, there simply isn’t enough substance to justify the feverish praise with which the film was lavished.

At least that’s what I think.

Love and Friendship Review

Exceptionally watchable, Whit Stillman’s Love and Friendship is a stirringly funny testament to the cinematic potential of Jane Austen.

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Chloe Sevigny and Kate Beckinsale in Love and Friendship

There is a rich heritage of Jane Austen adaptations on the both the small and big screen; Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility have seen themselves pillaged time and time again by innumerable screenwriters and playwrights, sometimes with excellent results, others decidedly less so. Lady Susan, however, is one of Austen’s works that appears to have largely escaped popular adaptation. With 2016’s Love and Friendship, director Whit Stillman has made a valiant effort to redress that discrepancy.

Lady Susan was a complete novella that went unpublished in Austen’s lifetime, comprised of 41 letters apparently written by the titular character, describing her efforts to secure husbands for both herself and her eligible daughter. Stillman’s script for Love and Friendship has transformed this irregular structure into a more standard narrative, giving a new voice to the supporting cast of characters while maintaining the period dialogue. Lady Susan herself makes for a joyfully selfish and conniving protagonist, and is played highly effectively by Kate Beckinsale. She has a hilarious and almost robotic ability to manipulate those around her, simultaneously seductive and sympathetic, but always focussed on furthering her own ends.

Beckinsale is backed by an excellent supporting cast; whether their role is to haplessly fall for, or vehemently fight against, Lady Susan’s machinations, each character acts and reacts in a believable way. Both Chloe Sevigny and Stephen Fry fill smaller roles, providing additional star power without encroaching on Beckinsale’s central performance.

The script remains witty and fast moving throughout, resulting in a talky but eminently watchable product. The dialogue has an old-worldly charm that allows it to be as biting and macabre as may be possible within a U-certificate film, while the comic relief of Tom Bennett’s Sir James Martin is never overplayed. Laugh out loud moments were happily common, a testament to the longevity and relatability of Austen’s verse.

The production design and period costuming is similarly excellent, dressing the screen with lavish and somewhat pornographic detail, reminiscent of Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon or, more appropriately, the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice. Despite the film’s relatively limited budget, it never feels cheap or inauthentic. All this is framed within camera work that has a clear but un-showy sense of style, steering clear of the televisual realm that often curses such period adaptations.

Love and Friendship is, above all, a joy to watch. Kate Beckinsale delivers a believable and thoroughly enjoyable performance, portraying Lady Susan as a woman who is easily detestable but never dull. In addition, Stillman’s script retains the core of Austen’s writing while propelling the events along at brisk pace – it’s ninety-two-minute runtime provides plenty of breathing room for both the characters and their picturesque surroundings. With Love and Friendship, Whit Stillman has ejected life and humour into the period drama, providing an energising take on one of Austen’s lesser known works.

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High-Rise Review

Despite some great performances and an interesting visual style, a muddied narrative prevents High-Rise from reaching its full potential.

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A sort of Orwellian Nelson Mandela House. Copyright 2016 Studio Canal.

The latest film from director Ben Wheatley, High- Rise is a long awaited adaptation of JG Ballard’s 1975 novel of the same name, the story of a luxury apartment building and a violent descent into depravity. As the tower and its occupants become increasingly isolated from the outside world and their resources run low, the neighbours quickly turn upon each other for control of the building. For the inhabitants of the high-rise, the construction gradually takes over their existence, swallowing up their lives and their jobs in the outside world as they indulge in debauchery and horror within their own microcosm. Despite its dark tone, the plot has a whimsical, allegorical quality to it, musing upon the fragility of modern civilisation and the nature of human barbarity. It’s a premise that requires a measure of disbelief, but nevertheless provides an intriguing examination on the human condition.

Wheatley has made the interesting decision to set the film very specifically within mid-1970s Britain, appropriating the release period of the original novel. It provides for a stylish and somewhat nostalgic aesthetic; trousers are flared, wallpaper is garishly printed, and shades of brown are rampant. Indeed, the whole film is visually excellent, as the set design juxtaposes brutalist architecture against the disorder wrought by the tenants.

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Tom Hiddleston as Dr Robert Laing. Copyright 2016 Studio Canal.

The frame is also filled with some exceptional central performances. Tom Hiddleston stars as Dr Robert Laing, a stylish neurosurgeon and the latest arrival to the tower. Laing is an almost impenetrable character; his past is left purposely shrouded in mystery, whilst his motivations remain unclear as he adapts to the degrading world around him. Hiddleston commands this ambiguity well, providing a charismatic yet unsettling presence throughout. Opposite him is Jeremy Irons as the antagonistic Anthony Royal, the original architect of the building, who evinces similarly ambivalent intentions. He claims to have constructed his own self-contained civilisation as an “instrument of change”, but doesn’t seem clear as to what change he seeks.

Deserving of particular praise, however, is Luke Evans as Richard Wilder, a menacing figure who leads a campaign against the wealthy residents of the tower’s upper floors. Wilder is an evidently despicable character from his first entrance, becoming more so as the madness intensifies, but Evans’ passionate performance is captivating. Ironically, his uncontrolled anger feels like the sanest response of all within an insane world. The female roles are broadly given less to do, but Sienna Miller rounds off the lead performers as Charlotte Melville, a carefree party-goer with little caution for social norms or even the safety of her young son.

Where the film fails, then, is in its storytelling. Both the opening and concluding chapters of the narrative are well executed, providing an immersive picture of the film’s peculiar world. It is in bridging these two sequences that Wheatley loses his way. For much of the second act, the film appears so keen to show you what is happening, but never does much to explain why. We are presented, in vivid and unflinching terms, with the collapse of the building into a hysterical and nightmarish state, but the underlying causes and social divisions beneath this turmoil are never really explored. The result is a narrative that feels muddled and without proper premeditation, which left my eyes wandering towards my watch rather than glued to the screen. A series of shocking events take place, but it’s difficult to be invested when so little attention has been given to the set-up.

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A pause for reflection. Copyright 2016 Studio Canal.

With the central characters of the film being so well drawn, it feels odd that the world around them is little more than a sketch. The high-rise itself is a visually stunning backdrop, but the script could certainly have done more to define its own conflicts and give more focus to the narrative. A last minute reference to Margaret Thatcher reveals some of the original story’s satirical edge, but it’s too little, too late. Wheatley’s penchant for visual symbolism and montage undeniably bogs the film down, and a shorter runtime would have resulted in a more coherent final product.

Nevertheless, High-Rise is an interesting experience, particularly if you allow yourself to be immersed in its unique world. Perhaps lacking in focus, its performances and use of imagery will leave a lasting impression, giving you much to think about long after the film has ended; as is often the case with Wheatley, the film is multi-layered and repeat viewings will likely reveal further intricacies. On first impressions, however, High-Rise fails to entertain as much as it really should, and there’s a feeling that Ballard’s satire deserves a more thorough excavation. The opening narration of the film states that “for all its inconveniences, Laing was satisfied with life in the high-rise” – I felt inclined to agree.

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This review was also published in Exeposé, the independent student newspaper for Exeter University. It can be found here, along with my other work for the publication.

Deadpool Review

With a script that isn’t funny and action that fails to excite, Deadpool falls well short of expectations.

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Ryan Reynolds in costume as Deadpool. Copyright 2016 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

There’s a peculiar self-confidence to Deadpool. It’s a feeling of assuredness, not only in the film’s eponymous hero, but permeating throughout the events on screen. For its entire duration, the script is all too eager to break the fourth wall, wink at the audience, and remind you just how clever it is. The jokes are crass and fly in your face without much subtlety, while references to pop culture and other comic book movies are incessant. It’s akin to an irritating friend, nudging you all the way through to make sure you’re getting his jokes. Despite all this, there really isn’t much in Deadpool to warrant  such self-assurance. Beneath a veneer of gimmicks, genital jokes, and non-linear sequencing, there exists a very average superhero film.

From debut director Tim Miller, Deadpool is a story of Wade Wilson (Ryan Reynolds), a foul-mouthed former mercenary who dons a red suit and takes on an alter-ego following a medical procedure that leaves him horribly disfigured but enhanced with super-human abilities. Swearing revenge upon Ajax (Ed Skrein), the psychopathic mutant who ruined him, Deadpool pursues a bloody campaign to track down the villain and exact his bloody justice. If that story rings a surprisingly conventional tone, that’s because it is. Where Deadpool attempts to distinguish itself is with an adult sense of humour and a mocking, self-referential attitude towards comic book cinema.

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Ed Skrein as Ajax. Copyright 2016 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

The problem is that Deadpool simply isn’t as funny as it thinks it is. The jokes arrive thick and fast, but more often than not they outstay their welcome or rely on a somewhat outdated knowledge of popular culture (a female with close-cropped hair is hilariously referred to as “Ripley, from Alien 3!”). Admittedly, such a sense of humour certainly has an audience, and my screening of the film wasn’t short of laughter. But for a script that seems so pleased with itself, much more should be expected.

Of course, Deadpool involves as much action as it does comedy, but in this regard the viewer is served the same unengaging, computerised spectacle that has become commonplace in the genre. The violence quotient has been substantially increased, but the total lack of excitement remains the same. In a film that takes such pleasure in mocking the tropes of superhero films, it is inexcusable for Deadpool to equally succumb to their failings. Miller’s pedestrian visual style simply has none of the distinction that his script requires, and the result is a conclusion that descends into protracted tedium rather than a triumphant finale.

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Even Deadpool himself was shocked by the quality of the script. Copyright 2016 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

Even if joy can be found in its humour, there’s little else in Deadpool to encourage repeat viewings. Ryan Reynolds may provide a convincingly charismatic performance, but he’s given little to work with next to a plot that’s barely there and a cast of one-note supporting characters. The action set pieces are unrelentingly dull, while Deadpool’s crude one-liners become an exhausting annoyance within an otherwise uninspired script. As Careless Whisper plays out and the credits roll, both comedy fans and action enthusiasts are likely to find themselves disappointed. I know I was.

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