No One Lives. (18.)
Directed by Ryuhei Kitamora.
Starring Luke Evans, Adelaide Clemens, Derek Magyar, Laura Ramsey, Lee Tergesen and Beau Knapp. 82 mins.
I am not the sort of man to ponder the wider ramifications of a free bar but when the PR people try to foist not one but two beers on you to take into screening and wonder if sir might find space for just one more wafer thin slice of pizza even this piggy eyed glutton begins to think about the quid pro quo.
The line they are pushing is that this gory exploitation flick is some kind of sleazy, knowing, darkly comic romp that is a notch or two above the standard horror muck. The reality is a fairly mundane procession of dismemberment.
Basically the film is Luke Evans killing a bunch of people. His nameless character (to be known as the Driver should this be successful enough to warrant sequels) is part thickie Hannibal Lecter, part intellectual Rambo. He is a cold calculating charismatic psychopath who even has his own Clarice – kidnapped heiress Emma (Clemens) who he is trying to impart his wisdom to, but also has ferocious survivalist skills. While Hannibal gained his intellect from a lifetime of academia and reading a lot of books and Rambo gained his fierce killing prowess in Nam; you feel Driver got his watching Hannibal and Rambo movies.
The plot presents him to us initially as part of an ordinary couple who are menaced by a sadistic bunch of robbers. That would have been a nice twist to see the cutthroat brigands slowly realise who they’ve unwittingly and unwisely tried to prey upon but the film can’t keep a straight face long enough to spring it, so all it has to offer is the originality and wit with which it dispenses it barbarities, which is great deal less than it imagines it to be. Strange that a film that aspires to be knowing, should have so little self-awareness.
I had built up a notion that Luke Evans was something of 21st century David Niven, having a suave detachment that lifts him clear of whatever nonsense he’d fallen into. No One Lives shows I was a being a bit optimistic there. It is the kind of film where you should relish the bloody dispatching of this stupid venal people but can’t because the dispatcher is such a bogus, unworthy figure. I don’t think Niven ever played a blood splattered psychopath, but I think he would have made a much better job of it.
Directed by Ryuhei Kitamora.
Starring Luke Evans, Adelaide Clemens, Derek Magyar, Laura Ramsey, Lee Tergesen and Beau Knapp. 82 mins.
I am not the sort of man to ponder the wider ramifications of a free bar but when the PR people try to foist not one but two beers on you to take into screening and wonder if sir might find space for just one more wafer thin slice of pizza even this piggy eyed glutton begins to think about the quid pro quo.
The line they are pushing is that this gory exploitation flick is some kind of sleazy, knowing, darkly comic romp that is a notch or two above the standard horror muck. The reality is a fairly mundane procession of dismemberment.
Basically the film is Luke Evans killing a bunch of people. His nameless character (to be known as the Driver should this be successful enough to warrant sequels) is part thickie Hannibal Lecter, part intellectual Rambo. He is a cold calculating charismatic psychopath who even has his own Clarice – kidnapped heiress Emma (Clemens) who he is trying to impart his wisdom to, but also has ferocious survivalist skills. While Hannibal gained his intellect from a lifetime of academia and reading a lot of books and Rambo gained his fierce killing prowess in Nam; you feel Driver got his watching Hannibal and Rambo movies.
The plot presents him to us initially as part of an ordinary couple who are menaced by a sadistic bunch of robbers. That would have been a nice twist to see the cutthroat brigands slowly realise who they’ve unwittingly and unwisely tried to prey upon but the film can’t keep a straight face long enough to spring it, so all it has to offer is the originality and wit with which it dispenses it barbarities, which is great deal less than it imagines it to be. Strange that a film that aspires to be knowing, should have so little self-awareness.
I had built up a notion that Luke Evans was something of 21st century David Niven, having a suave detachment that lifts him clear of whatever nonsense he’d fallen into. No One Lives shows I was a being a bit optimistic there. It is the kind of film where you should relish the bloody dispatching of this stupid venal people but can’t because the dispatcher is such a bogus, unworthy figure. I don’t think Niven ever played a blood splattered psychopath, but I think he would have made a much better job of it.
