12 Angry Men

I missed out on a lot of common experiences in high school because my classes tended to have unusual curriculum.  I have never read The Scarlet Letter, Jane Eyre, Beowulf, or Heart of Darkness.  I know, I know, I'm a lucky fella.  I also was not required to see 12 Angry Men when I studied the Constitution or in a speech class (in the "group think" chapter).  Sure, I've heard about the movie from my peers, but I never felt compelled to watch it, even when I noticed that it was in IMDB's top ten rated movies of all time.  Sometimes, I don't know what my problem is.

12 Angry Men is not the follow-up movie adaptation to the Bill Bixby/Lou Ferrigno television show, The Angriest Man.  Instead, it is a courtroom drama that actually doesn't take place in a courtroom at all.  As the movie poster suggests, it takes place in a dynamite factory.  The vast majority of the film (aside from a brief opening scene and a quick epilogue) takes place in the jury room.  The audience has not heard the lawyers speak, but the jury has heard the complete arguments of the prosecutors and the defense, and now it's time to decide whether the defendant is guilty or not guilty.  Of course, you need all twelve jurors to agree on the verdict, or else the jury is hung and the whole shebang is declared a mistrial.  That sounds pretty simple, but this is a capital crime, so a "guilty" verdict will result in the death penalty.  Despite the gravity of the case, the jury initially sits down and assumes that their deliberation will take all of five minutes; the case seems open-and-shut.  The first vote is 11-1, guilty, with only Juror 8 (Henry Fonda) dissenting.  And since the vote has to be unanimous, it is up to the rest of the jurors to convince (by whatever means) Juror 8 to change his vote...or, it is up to him to change everyone else's.

After I first watched this movie, I realized that there were some subtleties that I had missed the first time through; after my second viewing, I can definitely say that director Sidney Lumet did a great job.  Just the camerawork alone is fantastic.  You would think that a film set in one room would be visually dull and probably peppered with close-ups to vary the shots, but not this one.  The final shot of the film, a wide-angle crane shot of the jurors all leaving the courthouse, was what piqued my interest.  That shot felt so refreshing that I had to review the film and figure out why.  Here's what I noticed: the camera angles in the movie gradually shift their angle as the film progresses.  In the beginning, all the camera shots are a looking down slightly, or are at least at eye-level; by the end of the film, every shot is looking up at the actors.  So what?  Well, looking up at the actors (especially when they're arguing and are getting all sweaty) brings the ceiling into the shot, like the room is getting smaller (or the men are slowly swelling, I suppose).  It also felt like the room was getting smaller, too; I'm not sure if that was a camera trick, or maybe a larger table in the room, or maybe the set walls were pushed in a little, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't just my imagination.  These subtle cinematographic techniques add layers to the film, making it work on a subconscious level as well as the obvious look-at-the-actors-level.

The fancy camera tactics wouldn't have helped if the cast was no good, but this film is stacked with noteworthy actors.  As the conscience of film, Henry Fonda is the main character, and he is as good as he usually is; Henry Fonda was one of the great do-gooders in film, with most of his characters (at least, in his most famous movies) being noble and brave.  You wouldn't think that a film that essentially boils down to fighting peer pressure (vote guilty, everybody's doing it) could have a brave character, but that's what Fonda brings to the table.  Lee J. Cobb, as Juror 3, played Fonda's nemesis, of sorts.  He was perfect as the brutish, bullying jerk, the perfect foil for Fonda's calm rationality.  The rest of the players (Martin Balsam, John "the voice of Piglet" Fiedler, E.G. Marshall, Jack Klugman, Edward Binns, Jack Warden, Joseph Sweeney, Ed Begley, George Voskovec, and Robert Webber) were good, although some were a little one-dimensional.  The standout were Ed Begley's performance as the bitter racist and John Fiedler, in his typical role as the timid guy in the room.

This film was made in 1957 and that age shows itself from time to time.  The fact that an "ethnic" defendant would have twelve middle-aged or older white men for his jury feels a little odd now.  And I realize that racism is still an issue in America, but the scene where everyone turns their back on Begley (while powerful) is a little more dramatic than realistic.  Still, this is a great movie that is still relevant.  The film takes a basic concept --- that of reasonable doubt --- and forms a subtle, intelligent movie around it.  The movie isn't even long, clocking in at just over ninety minutes, and it is packed full of interesting, varied performances.  This film's quality was not a foregone conclusion --- it was made on a shoestring budget and featured a first-time film director --- but it still managed to be nominated for Best Picture, Director, and Adapted Screenplay, all for a picture set in one room, based on a legal issue.

Yeah...this is a good one.

Cashback (2006)

Sometimes, when I watch a movie, I will see a disturbing character trait and wait to see how that trait is addressed in the film.  Main characters are usually supposed to be likable, so these flaws are usually overcome by the end of the movie, whether it be shyness, a lack of trust, or just stupidity.  In an unusual move, Cashback's most memorable moments bring up an issue that is never mentioned or dealt with at all.

Ben Willis (Sean Biggerstaff, which is a fantastic porn name) got dumped by his girlfriend and developed insomnia.  Not the bad kind that has awful effects on you, like in Insomnia or A Nightmare On Elm Street (2010).  This kind of insomnia is almost a gift; while Ben is still miserable, he now has eight more hours to do things.  At first, he travels and reads all the books he always wanted to but never had the time for, but eventually he chooses to use his extra time working at a grocery store.  He gives them his extra time, and they give him cash back.  See what they did with that title?  Clever!  While at work, Ben notices that his fellow co-workers on the graveyard shift have different methods of letting time pass quickly.  Some goof off as much as possible, and some choose to never look at a clock.  Ben's methods require a little explanation.

Ben stops time.  With his mind.  Is it for real, or just an illusion in his head?  We'll talk about that later.  What would you do with time stopped all around you?  Laundry?  Thank goodness this movie isn't about you, then.  Ben is an aspiring artist, so he does a lot of drawings.  Of women.  Women that he undresses in the grocery aisles while time is paused, and sits right in front of as he sketches them.  Sure, why not?  It helps that the women in his grocery store all have lingerie model-quality bodies, of course; he must work by a Victoria's Secret model plant or something...although I don't know why they would be grocery shopping, since they don't eat.  Obviously, Ben doesn't tell anyone about these frozen moments and, really, the movie is not about them.  It's about recovering from a break-up.  And how do you recover from a break-up?  By finding someone new.  Not a revolutionary story, but it does feature insomnia and the ability to stop time, so at the very least, you know it is not a Nicholas Sparks movie.

This is a British indie movie, so the cast isn't terribly noteworthy, but there are a few actors you might recognize from big budget movies.  You might recognize Sean Biggerstaff from the Harry Potter movies, where he played the captain on the quidditch team; he's decent here, but no revelation.  Marc Pickering plays Brian, the grocery store kung fu aficionado, but you might remember him as Johnny Depp's boy assistant in Sleepy Hollow.  He was actually my favorite character in this movie, playing his tiny part with the same awkward physicality of the Napoleon Dynamite supporting cast.  Emilia Fox is okay as Ben's rebound love interest and she pulls off a rare feat by becoming more attractive as the film goes on.  Shaun Evans is smarmy and unlikable as Ben's cliche-ridden and hormone-driven best friend, but he plays a predictable character fairly well.  Michelle Ryan makes a brief appearance as the dreaded ex-girlfriend and topless models Hayley-Marie Coppin and Keeley Hazell manage to appear on screen and neither act nor deliver any lines.  I wonder what scenes nude models would be in?

Honestly, the acting wasn't anything special, but this story doesn't lend itself to deep roles.  The supporting cast consists of one-dimensional caricatures, with only Biggerstaff and Fox playing characters with anything resembling depth or likability.  This movie is more about its style than its substance.  I find that films with consistent narration throughout the film by the main character tend to emphasize his/her skewed perspective on the world; that's fine when that perspective is interesting, but otherwise it feels like the director is just trying to show off some neat camera tricks.  This film wavers between the two types.  In the beginning of the movie, Ben basically sleepwalks through his days and writer/director Sean Ellis makes those first few moments pretty visually interesting.  The rest of the movie is told in a pretty typical style with occasional exploits in cinematography that feel tacked on and almost masturbatory.  I get it, you bought a slow-motion camera; let's keep the story moving, already.  That tacked on feeling might be because Sean Ellis made a short film of the same name in 2004 and he supposedly incorporated nearly all of that footage into this feature length film.

The big draw to this film is the use of the frozen moments in time.  There are a million break-up stories, but this is a unique story element.  At first, I thought the film was implying that this was just Ben's way of dealing with all his extra time; instead of living every moment, he takes mental pictures and focuses on these images while he lets his body perform monotonous tasks.  And, at first, that's how the movie basically explains it; after a while, though, it becomes apparent that this is an actual ability, which makes Ben the most underachieving superhuman ever.  He can freeze time and he chooses to work in a grocery store?  Being a pizza delivery guy would be a better use of that power, and that's still not exactly reaching for the stars.

Okay, now I'm going to address the odd character trait that this movie does not.  Freezing time to undress and draw strange women in the grocery store is a little weird, right?  Ben's a guy, so it's not a huge surprise that he's perverted, but...that's a little more than voyeuristic.  It's kind of creepy.  "But he's an artist, and he just finds the female form beautiful, blah, blah, blah."  I'm not debating the artistic value of the nude form, I'm arguing that removing the clothes from someone while they are unaware/incapacitated, sitting a foot away from them and drawing their naughty bits is pervy.  It's the same level of creepy as undressing someone while they are passed out and staring at them.  I'm not judging, I'm just saying that part of me feels weird about it and the other part high fives itself because there are boobies on the screen.  And I find it astounding that this is treated as a completely innocent exercise with no repercussions at all.  You would think the most interesting aspect of a movie would impact the story in some major way, but...not so much.

Yes, there are some cool visuals in this movie and there are a couple of sequences (maybe ten minutes out of the entire movie) where there are oodles of female nudity on the screen, but the story and acting are nothing special.  It's kind of lighthearted, at least, but this movie relies heavily on the novelty of nude women to justify why anyone should watch it.  I have heard worse justifications, mind you, but even a thirteen-year-old version of me wouldn't want to watch this movie again.  Well, maybe some parts.

M (1931)

For a while, I have been putting off watching M because I viewed it as a historical film, and little more.  This was director Fritz Lang's first "talkie," it was Peter Lorre's big break, it was the first police procedural, and it was the first serial killer movie.  There are other historical aspects to this 1931 film (the first time a character has been associated with music, or a leitmotif), but those are generally the ones that people talk about.  And by "people," I mean "film critics."  I've had access to the movie for a while, but after my last historical viewing (Nosferatu) failed to entertain me, I was hesitant to give this one a go.  Once again, the joke is on me; while it is certainly an old (and German!) movie, it still stands up.

In an unnamed German city, a child murderer is on the loose.  At least four children have been found murdered in the past year, with an implication that more have gone missing.  As some working class mothers discuss the murders and prepare for their children to come home from school, we see the back of a man's head and hear him whistle a song from Edvard Grieg's music for the play Peer Gynt:


The man then follows a little girl.  We see the mother get annoyed, and increasingly frantic, when her daughter doesn't arrive home with the other children; meanwhile, we see shots of the man giving the girl some candy and buying a balloon for her from a blind street vendor.  The mother instinctively knows that something is wrong, and her cries for her child echo in all the innocent places she could be; the whistling stops and the camera follows her balloon drifting to the sky and getting tangled in some phone wires.

Right off the bat, we know who the killer is.  We have not seen his face yet or heard the name Hans Beckert (Peter Lorre) yet, but there is no mistaking that the whistling man, and that he killed that girl.  The public is justifiably upset over the murder and gets more so when the killer writes a letter to a newspaper, implying that the police have been holding out on the press on this case.  The public get hysterical; one scene shows a man being kind to a child and getting attacked by a mob and being accused of murder.  The obvious next step for the police is to crack down on all criminals and see if they can find any leads on the murderer.  This ruins business for the criminals, so the heads of the various semi-unionized criminal career paths (safecrackers, thieves, beggars, etc.) decide that they will comb the city for the killer, too, if only to get the police off their backs.  Eventually, through the use of psychology, the police stumble upon Beckert's apartment and find some telling clues that he wrote the letter to the newspaper.  Meanwhile, as Beckert prepares to entice and murder another child, he passes by the same blind balloon vendor from before, whistling again; being a semi-unionized beggar, he and his friends are on the lookout for the killer and the blind man pieces together the timing of the last girl's death with the whistling he hears now.  The blind man gets another to trail Beckert; to do this better, the man writes "M" (for morder, or murder) on his hand in chalk and makes up an excuse to put his hand on Beckert's jacket.  So now, both the police and the criminal element know that Beckert is the killer.  The question is who will find him first, and what will they do?

In his first leading role, Peter Lorre doesn't really get a whole lot of screen time in M.  The movie is clearly about him, but even when he is on screen, he is often silent or has his back turned toward the camera.  Once he realizes that he has been marked and is being followed, Lorre does a good job playing a desperate man.  With his normally hooded eyes, when Lorre opens them wide, he really looks terrified.  He only has one opportunity to explain his character, and he does so in a (surprisingly good, for the times) monologue near the film's close.  And yet, the film is not sympathetic to his character.  It's an interesting balance, and you can argue that this film is without a protagonist.  Lang uses visual cues (smoke, anonymous meeting rooms, insincere smiles) to draw parallels between the police officials and the criminal leaders.  Neither the police leader, Inspector Lohman (Otto Wernicke), nor the criminal leader, The Safecracker (Gustaf Grundgens), are particularly likable.  M kind of feels like an episode of Law and (Dis)Order, with the police doing their part and the criminals doing theirs; the story is not about either of them, so much as it is about the case itself.  I guess that makes sense, then, that this film gave birth to the police procedural genre.

Fritz Lang's direction is probably what sticks out to me most about this film.  In some ways, what he was doing was clearly very innovative, like his frequent use of windows and mirrors to show Beckert's emotions.  Giving the killer his own musical theme, which is common now, was a first back then, too.  What stuck out most to me were the moments that had no soundtrack at all.  There weren't many of these, maybe two or three stretches of a few minutes of silence, that just felt odd to me.  There were also some unusual camera angles that were clearly making a point (like the extreme low angle, looking up at Inspector Lohman's crotch), but I have absolutely no idea what.  This was 1931 Germany, so I suppose it could have something to do with Nazis, but I couldn't begin to guess what exactly a policeman's crotch has to do with Hitler.

This definitely feels like an old movie.  Many of the shots look like they could be accompanied by ragtime piano, like silent films, and there are other action shots that might have been played back in fast-forward.  Many of the supporting characters are bland and their performances are usually just one-note.  This movie does show flashes of inspired filmmaking and Peter Lorre's desperate monologue is very good.  The use of Freudian psychology in the film is interesting, as it on the one hand helps condemn him (a handwriting analysis shows the killer to be a "sexual deviant," which implies pedophilia --- edgy now, but in 1931?  Fuggedaboutit!) but on the other hand helps excuse him (should a compulsion be punished?); these are both surprisingly complex ideas, ones that I don't think Hollywood tackled for another fifteen or twenty years.

I suppose the question that a viewing of M brings up is, "Is it worth seeing?"  Definitely.  I always enjoy Peter Lorre and his disturbed performance is interesting to watch.  I don't know how good the English dubbed version is (I know the actors did dub dialogue, but I also know that Lorre couldn't speak English fluently until after 1934), but the cleaned up Criterion edition of the film has good picture quality and (from my limited grasp of German) good subtitles, so I would recommend that one.  This is the oldest film I have watched that actually felt like a modern movie, and it's interesting to see film history unfolding before you.  Yes, it has aged, and a lot of the story elements are predictable, now that they've been rehashed a few dozen times, but that's not the point.  If it wasn't engaging, it would still be educational, and Lorre's performance is worth checking out.

Heeey...you can find other opinions on M at the Noir-a-Thon page

I'm Still Here

In early 2009, while promoting the film Two Lovers, two-time Academy Award nominee Joaquin Phoenix made an infamous appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman:

As you can see, he appeared disheveled, confused, and probably (to use the clinical term) stoned out of his gourd.  For most of the American public, this was the first look they had of the "new" Joaquin Phoenix --- no longer an actor, but apparently an aspiring hip-hop artist/advocate of not bathing.

What we saw on Letterman was also the climax of the documentary that Phoenix's brother-in-law, Casey Affleck, was filming about Joaquin's retirement from acting and his "budding" rap career.  I'm Still Here starts in late-2008, with Joaquin declaring his retirement to a random TV journalist at a press event.  Over the next three or four months, the cameras follow him as Joaquin tries to articulate just why he doesn't want to act anymore.  It has something to do with too much time spent on preparation and direction, and not enough time spent being creative.  Okay, that's a fair critique of professional acting, I guess.  Of course, I paraphrased JP's (as he wants people to call him) f-bomb littered ramblings.  I believe his exact words were, "mumble mumble mumble shit."  If you like incoherent mumbling, though, this movie is a gold mine.  The majority of the film follows JP as he complains about being taken seriously and all the phoniness of celebrity life; some time is spent as he tries desperately to get Sean "Diddy" Combs to listen to (and produce) his album, but that is just a symptom of his disgust with whatever it is he's trying to get away from.  Unfortunately, JP is a terrible, terrible rapper.  Worse than Macho Man Randy Savage.  And it's obvious.  He has no hope of a rap career, and he burns his bridges in the film community.  What else does a downward spiral need?  Narcissism, sex and drugs?  Check, check, and check.  Aside from the constant smoking of what appears to be pot and the frequent snorting of what appears to be cocaine, viewers get to see (well, I don't know if "get to" is the right phrase; it's not like this is a prize) JP order some hookers and abuse his closest friends for his own mistakes.  The Letterman appearance is the climax of the film, but there is plenty of falling action afterward, as JP has to figure out his next step.

As a documentary, I'm Still Here is a complete mess.  Affleck's direction is awful, the camera work is terrible, and the sound sucks.  Aside from the pretentious inclusion of an old home video to serve as a bookend to the film, it doesn't really go anywhere or have anything to say.  You would think that this was documenting the fall of Joaquin Phoenix, but it's not; he was already at the bottom when this started filming, his hobo beard just hadn't grown in yet.  JP is completely unlikable throughout, and everything he says sounds like art school bullshit.  You would hear less whining if you went to a Goth convention.  The most likable people in the whole film are the two who are the meanest to Joaquin.  Diddy gave him some pretty kind advice on his music, but scoffed at the idea of them working together, while his buddy/assistant Anton eventually tired of JP's abuse and literally crapped on his head.  But even that slight amusement is not nearly enough to make this documentary worth seeing.


Of course, this isn't a documentary.  Aside from the fact that Joaquin Phoenix and Casey Affleck received writing credits for the film, some cast members did not star as themselves, the cameras and sound are rolling at all hours of the day (even after JP is asleep) and...well, I'm sorry, but this movie is just beyond any suspension of disbelief.  There is no way in hell that Affleck's wife, Joaquin's sister, would have let him release this movie; well, not if he wanted to stay married, anyway.  There is zero chance that professional escorts would allow themselves to be filmed (with a cameraman and sound guy) screwing around with movie stars.  And I find it hard to believe that any documentary about hip-hop would include this much gratuitous penis on camera.  After the movie was released in theaters this fall, everyone involved admitted that the film was a hoax.  Gasp.  I'm crushed.

Here's the problem: even when you know that this film is a joke (and, trust me, you know within minutes of its start), it's still not funny.  The best mockumentaries (This is Spinal Tap, Borat, Best in Show, etc.) are funny because they are, in some ways, spot-on with their interpretations of what the public assumes their characters are like (rock stars, foreigners, dog people).  But then, they surprise us with totally left-field personality traits, or so-dumb-it-has-to-be-true moments (lost behind the stage, outrageous racism, Fred Willard).  I'm Still Here doesn't make any jokes, aside from the prolonged joke of JP's rapping career.  This movie is ridiculous, but it's never funny.  That is very, very frustrating.  So, what is this mockumentary mocking?  I assume that it's supposed to be poking fun at our culture's obsession with celebrities and/or reality television.  It doesn't really matter, since this film completely fails in either respect.

This was a very upsetting film.  I don't usually look at someone defecating on the star of a film as the high point in the movie, but that is the situation I find myself in; worse, my immediate reaction was "now, hit him in the face with a shovel!"  It's difficult for me to articulate just how much I despise this film.  It's pretentious on the surface (everything that comes out of JP's mouth), and it's pretentious as a finished product ("It doesn't suck, you just don't get it...").  This is a movie that feels like it wants to say something important, aside from "gotcha!" but never even tries.  Have you ever gone on a date with someone and realized that everything they laugh at, you hate?  That's how this movie makes me feel.  There is nothing funny about this movie, there is nothing true in this movie...in fact, there is nothing redeeming in this movie at all.  "But what about the penises and the pooping?"  There's a wide world of porn out there for anyone interested in those things, and I can guarantee that the production quality would be better than this film.  Utterly worthless.

As a mini-tribute to David Letterman, here's my list of ten awful things that would have made this movie better:

• All of Joaquin's friends go to a costume party with him, and they all dressed as his dead brother, River.
• Have M. Night Shyamalan throw water on Joaquin, making him melt.  That's why he hasn't washed his hair in months!  He's one of the aliens from Signs!
• Forty minutes of dead baby jokes.
• Complementary picked koala paste with purchase of the DVD.
• The cast of Twilight made a commentary track where they explain particle physics.
• Thunderbird bum wine.
• Having Casey Affleck wake up and realize it was all a dream.  And then realize that he's in bed next to Bob Newhart.  And their home is inside the snow globe of an autistic child.
• Getting stuck in an elevator during a blackout after you've taken a pound of horse laxatives.  And there are eight other people in the elevator with you.
• In the ultimate act of defiance against the culture of beauty in Hollywood, Joaquin tears his lip open because his cleft lip was "real" and Hollywood is fake.
• A tornado hits Joaquin Phoenix's home, decimating the crew and scattering various bodies through walls, trees, and pavement.  As the movie fades to black, you hear "Why did we waste the last days of our life making something so awful...?!?"

Bronson

I have always been of two minds when it comes to prisons and their purpose in our society.  On the one hand, I get that they are places of punitive punishment and I understand the almost Pavlovian psychology behind the idea of prison reforming its subjects --- if you're good (salivate), you don't have to stay in prison (whimper).  But I also understand the theory that going through the hell of prison life can just as easily make demons as born-again saints.  But what can society do about someone who just loves --- LOVES --- prison?

Bronson is based on the real life of Britain's most violent (and expensive) inmate, Michael Peterson (Tom Hardy), who prefers to go by his boxing name of Charles Bronson.  He doesn't blame his life on his childhood (it was pretty normal) or his parents (who were pretty nice).  No, he just always liked to fight.  Bullies, teachers, anybody who got in his way.  Not surprisingly, he went to jail at an early age; he robbed a post office with a sawed-off shotgun, got away with about $30, was immediately caught, and was sentenced to seven years in prison.  If he behaved, he might get out in as little as three years.  But why would he want to get out?  Bronson referred to his prison cells as "hotel rooms," and the infamy he received for beating prison guards and other inmates fed his desire to be famous.  On the outside world, he was just a tough guy, but in prison he was the tough guy.  His favorite trick was to take a hostage, strip naked, grease up his body (with butter, grease paint, or whatever) and then take on four or five prison guards at a time.  His mother always said, "do what you know," and he knew nothing better than fighting.  In fact, aside from sixty-odd days in the late 80s, Charles Bronson has been incarcerated, uninterrupted, since 1974, with about 30 of those years spent in solitary confinement.  That sounds preposterous for a criminal that has never killed, but what can you do with someone who loves prison so much?

Director/co-writer Nicolas Winding Refn doesn't attempt to answer that question.  Like his Pusher films, Refn is more interested in the crimes themselves than the meaning behind them.  Bronson is stylized in a way that I have never seen with a biopic.  The main character narrates at times, speaks directly to the camera at others, and even stands on stage in a theater, performing a one-man-show for the packed audience.  Why?  I don't know...maybe to serve as a metaphor for Bronson's desire to be famous, to perform for some unknown audience?  It doesn't really matter.  This film is not concerned with the motives or consequences of Bronson's actions, it is all about celebrating his love of violence and self-destruction.

As the only actor of consequence in the film, Tom Hardy's performance is the make-or-break factor in this film.  I am vaguely familiar with Hardy, having seen him most recently in Inception (and also in Black Hawk Down and Layer Cake), but he is unrecognizable in this role.  He bulked up considerably, shaved his head, and grew a fantastic handlebar mustache --- presumably to give people a reason to make fun of him, which gives him a reason to kick their ass --- and filled his role with a physicality that was intimidating and positively frightening.  Hardy does a great job portraying Bronson as an animal, but I also liked how socially awkward (and surprisingly polite) he played Charlie in social situations.  Like Daniel Day-Lewis' work in Gangs of New York (another handlebar mustache role), Hardy managed to add depth and complexity to a role that could easily have been cartoonish in the hands of a lesser actor.

Despite Hardy's excellent performance, I was left somewhat indifferent to the movie as a whole.  Nicolas Winding Refn's artistic indulgences with the narrative initially appear to have a greater purpose in mind, like they are being inserted into the film to give Bronson's life a direction that is never explicitly stated.  By the end of the film, though, those choices (talking to the camera, performing for a crowd) have been abandoned for almost the entire second half of the film.  That appears to be a lack of conviction on Refn's part, in my eyes.  I don't mind that the movie didn't have a dramatic arc, since Hardy was so charismatic, but I wish that his character's motivations were left either more or less explicit.  As they stand ("I want to be famous"), I don't really see how effective they are in the character's progression.

Don't get me wrong, this film is pretty entertaining.  If you like seeing people get punched in the face by a greased-up naked man (and who doesn't?), this movie is a must-see.  I applaud Tom Hardy for the confidence he has with his body image, too, since there is a lot of his greased-up man bits in this movie.  And, despite my issues with the direction, I have to admit that Refn did a good job taking a seemingly directionless story and making it entertaining.  If he had gone a few steps further, this could have been great.