Cinema frequently disappoints me. Some movies just look better on a big screen, the ones with guns and testosterone, or improbable flying lizards, others, in small constrained settings are comfortable to watch on a laptop monitor. I also find myself weary of predictable plotlines and resent playing guessing games with the director for the next slice of action.
Not much left, it would seem. Or, perhaps not. Quite often, the more a film is hammered by the critics, the more I’d like to see it. It’s nice, too to have read the books first, which movie critics seem to do less and less.
For example, “The American”. George Clooney. Art house with firearms and the moral dilemmas faced by an executioner. Might be interesting, especially with an unknown cast and filmed in the Abruzzo mountains. A grown-up Jason Bourne, perhaps. The twaddle-merchants (barely pubescent juveniles with little experience and no taste) seemed on the whole to dislike it, which means I’m quite looking forward to seeing it. Perhaps I’ve seen too many European films – which look different to Hollywood eyes.
According to one critic, the tough-cool tradition of classic French crime dramas lives in Anton Corbijn’s thriller adapted from the late Martin Booth’s 1991 novel “A Very Private Gentleman”. L