Directed by William Monahan. Starring Colin Farrell, Keira Knightley, David Thewlis, Anna Friel, Ray Winstone 16 cert, gen release, 103 min
WE'VE SEEN a few misleading trailers recently, but the TV promo for this (faint praise alert) interesting thriller really takes the biscuit. If the slot is to be believed, London Boulevardis a geezer thriller in the Guy Ritchie mode. Bung the shooters in the van. Fling Danny Dyer down the apples and pears. And so on.
Love a duck, you won't believe your pork pies if you actually go down the dolly mixtures to have a butchers. Cor blimey... All right, all right, we'll give it a rest. William Monahan's film – the directorial debut for the writer of The Departed– is certainly set in that milieu. Ray Winstone even turns up as the senior heavy. But this is a studied, vaguely existentialist thriller that is happier tipping its hat to Performanceand Sunset Boulevardthan to Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.Indeed, the picture would make an interesting (that word again) double bill with this week's even more obtuse The American.
Based on a novel by Ken Bruen, Irish master of contemporary noir, London Boulevard finds Colin Farrell playing Mitchell, a south London villain who has recently emerged from prison. We quickly learn that Mitchell is, at heart, a decent sort. He is friendly with an elderly homeless gent. He dissuades two heavies from mugging a girl at a cash machine. Eager to go straight, he secures a dogsbody job for Charlotte, a reclusive actress.
Played by Keira Knightley as a less charismatic version of herself, Charlotte spends her days sheltering from the paparazzi that gather like Hitchcockian birds on neighbouring balconies. When Mitchell is not being menaced by Winstone and his camel coat, he finds himself slipping into a tender – and, it must be said, somewhat unlikely – romantic relationship with his sulky employer.
The film, nicely shot in muggy shades by the great Chris Menges, is not short on sombre atmosphere. The collision of geezer dynamics and uneasy glamour points us back not just to Performance, but to The Long Good Fridayand Mona Lisa. Unfortunately, the story is so disordered that you are never quite sure where your attention should be focused.
There’s a fine film in here somewhere, but it’s buried very deep beneath a great deal of classy mediocrity.
