Are Nick Love's movies too fackin' cerebral for ya? Then get straight dahn Blockbuster and get yourself some of this. And I ain't even avvin' a bubble, ya mug.
This film is allegedly based on the same true events that inspired the surprisingly respectable and proficient Sean Bean gangster flick Essex Boys, but such information suggests that this is going to have some kind of tenuous link to the real world. Not so. This is a loathsome, plot less and titanically mean-spirited cartoon that is so offensive and so depressing that it calls to mind nothing less than Meir Zarchi's evergreen vulgarity barometer I Spit On Your Grave.
Overlong and aimless, the flick just ambles briskly along, taking frequent pause to go off on random, inconsequential tangents, all of which culminate in either gratuitous sex or gratuitous violence, occasionally played for repugnant laughs that'll have most audiences continuously scraping their jaws off the floor.
It is completely impossible to overstate just how grotesquely pornographic the violence is, even when compared to the other specimens from this illustrious cinematic sub-genre. People are endlessly having their faces smashed in with bricks, their heads bludgeoned with metal poles, their backsides penetrated with blunt knives, often in glorious slow-motion, and even more often perpetrated by our lovably roguish hero. In 'is world, you gotta 'it em ard innit? Or else they don't respect ya, yeah?
Other highlights include... Our "hero" forming an impromptu posse of about ten strangers on a subway train, who take on (and end up beating into retreat) a tribe of around two hundred machete-wielding maniacs; our "hero" romancing, marrying and fathering the children of two posh, angelic and smitten beauties a few months apart; and our "hero" being accosted by a random blonde who nonchalantly begs for permission to fellate him.
And as if the swelling, disease-of-the-week string syrup on the soundtrack wasn't bad enough, the flick even has the audacity to go all Rashomon on us in the third act, pretentiously recounting a plot event repeatedly for no reason other than to garishly bask in the glory of another dozen senseless killings. And who the hell cares anyway? All that plot stuff just gets in the way of the gore. But fear not; after a couple of very brief minutes featuring three men swearing at each other in a Range Rover, the plasma is right back to flying around like jism in an apocalyptic gusher gangbang.
So, in short, its just like all those other recent British hooligan movies, only worse; it is manifestly the unbridled, most peerlessly idiotic, most misogynistic masturbation delusion of the thickest teenage fantasist in all of fackin' England.
Oh, and the actors are all so universally unconvincing that they make Elijah Wood in Green Street look like Lenny McLean.
Trust me. You need this movie like you need a brick-shaped dent in your bonce.
This film is allegedly based on the same true events that inspired the surprisingly respectable and proficient Sean Bean gangster flick Essex Boys, but such information suggests that this is going to have some kind of tenuous link to the real world. Not so. This is a loathsome, plot less and titanically mean-spirited cartoon that is so offensive and so depressing that it calls to mind nothing less than Meir Zarchi's evergreen vulgarity barometer I Spit On Your Grave.
Overlong and aimless, the flick just ambles briskly along, taking frequent pause to go off on random, inconsequential tangents, all of which culminate in either gratuitous sex or gratuitous violence, occasionally played for repugnant laughs that'll have most audiences continuously scraping their jaws off the floor.
It is completely impossible to overstate just how grotesquely pornographic the violence is, even when compared to the other specimens from this illustrious cinematic sub-genre. People are endlessly having their faces smashed in with bricks, their heads bludgeoned with metal poles, their backsides penetrated with blunt knives, often in glorious slow-motion, and even more often perpetrated by our lovably roguish hero. In 'is world, you gotta 'it em ard innit? Or else they don't respect ya, yeah?
Other highlights include... Our "hero" forming an impromptu posse of about ten strangers on a subway train, who take on (and end up beating into retreat) a tribe of around two hundred machete-wielding maniacs; our "hero" romancing, marrying and fathering the children of two posh, angelic and smitten beauties a few months apart; and our "hero" being accosted by a random blonde who nonchalantly begs for permission to fellate him.
And as if the swelling, disease-of-the-week string syrup on the soundtrack wasn't bad enough, the flick even has the audacity to go all Rashomon on us in the third act, pretentiously recounting a plot event repeatedly for no reason other than to garishly bask in the glory of another dozen senseless killings. And who the hell cares anyway? All that plot stuff just gets in the way of the gore. But fear not; after a couple of very brief minutes featuring three men swearing at each other in a Range Rover, the plasma is right back to flying around like jism in an apocalyptic gusher gangbang.
So, in short, its just like all those other recent British hooligan movies, only worse; it is manifestly the unbridled, most peerlessly idiotic, most misogynistic masturbation delusion of the thickest teenage fantasist in all of fackin' England.
Oh, and the actors are all so universally unconvincing that they make Elijah Wood in Green Street look like Lenny McLean.
Trust me. You need this movie like you need a brick-shaped dent in your bonce.