Review of Hard Men

Back in the Fifties, many a movie seemed to require one or other of its characters to say: 'hey, let's put on a show!'. In what may have passed for the gestation of this film, someone, perhaps the writer / director, said: 'Hey, let's make a movie!' The result now is much the same as the result way back then, except that in those Fifties disasters the people on each side of the camera had a reasonable idea of what they were doing. No such luck here: if I'd had to sit through this as a graduation piece from young film makers, the most charitable verdict would've been that 'Hard Men' is to movie making what Jeffrey Archer is to English Literature. In other words, no connection.

The movie doesn't so much take to the screen as set up house in a cliche -- guns, shouting, more guns, more shouting, bad language, guns, bad language, guns. As reportage it's dismal. As fiction it's unsustainable. The acting is of a standard to make one wish to hand out Oscars to those responsible for 'Night of the Lepus' ('Attack of The Killer Rabbits') and the direction as consistent as a weathervane in a hurricane.

But that ol' Fifties magic lingers on, for a third of the way through the director finally loses the plot altogether and it's time for 'hey, let's put on a show!' -- whereupon one or other of the mass murderers turns to the camera and sings about his newborn baby.

Come back, Ed Wood. All is forgiven.

Rating: unrateable.