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This glinting, scalding gangland phantasmagoria offers a sort of funhouse-mirror refraction of the life and career of a British hooligan so elemental in his right villainy that he's merely identified as "Gangster." The action begins in 1999, with Malcolm McDowell brutishly savoring his eminence as a crime lord; but more of the film is taken up with an extended flashback to 1968, when his youthful self--played by Paul Bettany (but voiced by McDowell during private reveries)--got his start. Bettany's patron is Freddie Mays, "the Butcher of Mayfair" (David Thewlis), a comparatively suave rotter whom "Young Gangster" more or less simultaneously worships, emulates, and craves to see destroyed. Director Paul McGuigan layers the eras and personalities in a kaleidoscope of jagged stylization (occasionally the image shatters like glass, then hellishly reconstitutes itself). The effect is less to tell a proper story than to suspend us in a state of mind--and a homage to McDowell's landmark role in
A Clockwork Orange. But it does exert an unclean fascination.
--Richard T. Jameson
From The New Yorker
This is an unexpected treat-a gangster-as-sociopath movie that doesn't try to coddle its antihero. The movie is set, for the most part, in sixties London, and it's built around a magnificent, ice-cold performance by Paul Bettany as a thug who covets his boss's power. (The boss is played by David Thewlis, in a performance inspired by Pete Townshend and Cliff Richard.) There's an unspoken erotic charge to Bettany and Thewlis's scenes together; they're wound so tightly that when the movie erupts into violence it has the visceral impact of some of Scorsese's best work. The bulk of the story is told via flashback (Malcolm McDowell, as the aged version of Bettany's gangster, bookends the film), and the director Paul McGuigan gets the details right. His London underworld is filled with nattily dressed teddy boys, sunken living rooms, and beautiful women with their hair piled high. It's the gangster flick as over-the-top Greek tragedy. -Bruce Diones
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker