Published: September 1, 2010
There’s even that classic 007 trope of a factory hideout patrolled by blokes in boiler suits. I enjoyed the moment when Alex, having flattened a bunch of goons with high-kicking moves, makes his getaway on a bicycle – would a stolen car send out the wrong message to starry-eyed teens? – but I couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for the rest.Pettyfer, a handsome kid, isn’t quite at ease as an actor, though perhaps he’ll grow into the role. It’s basically an enactment of every 14-year-old boy’s fantasy: he already has the skills (fighting, climbing, shooting etc) learnt courtesy of uncle Ewan; now he’s loaded up with an arsenal of cool toys to help him out of tight spots (Stephen Fry is gadget-master ?a Q – they ought to have called him P).
Impossible not to think of Rider as a fun-sized Bond, especially when his mission leads him to the lair of the obligatory billionaire villain (Mickey Rourke, just about suppressing a yawn) and a deadly computer that has to be disarmed. Harry Potter meets Harry Palmer in this homegrown espionage thriller, adapted by Anthony Horowitz from his novel about a junior secret agent. Alex Rider (Alex Pettyfer) is mourning the mysterious death of his guardian uncle (Ewan McGregor) when he suddenly finds himself recruited by MI6’s Special Ops Division, headed by the less-than-reassuring figure of Bill Nighy, mumming rather too freely nowadays.
All the revolution seems to mean to these middle-class slackers is the right to get out of their heads on hash and opium, indulge in narcissistic posturing and hop into bed with passing strangers: in other words, to be a student, pre-New Labour style A bit of a blague, as they say in France.. During a running battle with police he encounters budding sculptor Lilie (Clotilde Hesme), and they move into the apartment of a rich-kid friend Antoine (Julien Lucas) who presides over a lotus-land of druggy torpor.
The film is more a salute to tousle-haired youth than to the “spirit of 1968″, which would be fine if Garrel hadn’t seen fit to allow this virtually plotless meditation to meander for a full three hours. Philippe Garrel and his cinematographer William Lubtchansky shoot it in ravishing black and white, so that even a street choked with riot police and fires takes on the lyrical air of a dream. Louis Garrel, the director’s son, plays Fran?s, a 20-year-old poet with Valentino eyes who has escaped military service and, like countless others, sniffed revolution in the air. Like Bertolucci’s recent The Dreamers, this French drama reels back to les ?nements of Paris, May 1968, and tries to sift some meaning from an era that seemed at once more passionate and carefree. What a shame, then, that the movie braces us for a big denouement and abjectly fails to deliver one. Compare it to Ray Lawrence’s brilliant Lantana (2001), another multi-character drama from Australia with a complicated back story, and the difference between what each film draws out of its intricate shuffle of characters is very marked.This serious and compelling mood-piece trawls some dark places and promises to dredge up something worth the effort; alas, it’s not even little fish we’re offered but a harmless old boot..
Woods tells us the bare minimum, but as the intrigue thickens the gravitational pull of tragedy becomes irresistible. Noni Hazlehurst, as the protective mother of Tracy and Ray, eloquently conveys this realisation. She is only slightly out-twitched by Weaving, gaunt and bearded as her old partner-in-grime, despair clinging to him like old sweat. Henderson as Ray looks like Jim Morrison in his gone-to-seed twilight, though at one point he’s seen blowing out the candles on his 30th birthday cake “Speech, Ray?” “Get fucked”.