Scott burns Mexico. Brud fires critics.
Director: Tony Scott
146 minutes
De sun be harsh in Mexico City.
Highlights burned, shade evil dark, and saturashun in de eye uh de beholder.
As usual, our homeys de film critics gots been too long in de hot sun – and fo’gots’ta remove deir shades mosey on down curtain-rise.
Scott digs some right rogerin’ fo’ his polished effo’t, some maradon held togeda’ (fo’ dose uh us sho’t on sophisticashun) by some sco’chin’ blend uh de redeemed dispensin’ redempshun.
Fo’tunately de payin’ popco’n public gots attenshun spans greata’ dan pannin’ pundits. Not some minute wuzted, no’ any essential frame left on de cuttin’ room floo’. Two hours, twenty-six minutes uh carefully crafted engrossin’ tension.
Mexico City be de fall dude, its co’rupshun implicit, de context given. While Daniel Eagan lands some blow: "Giving credit to Mexico City after spending two hours depicting it as the worst hellhole…" considerable affecshun limned Mexitli merit befo’e turnin’ t’its ugly underside. And why dun did Lupita need be American, o’ ha’ mum? Empady might ‘esalt audenticity beyond Scott’s wildest had he cast dark-eyed indigenous befo’e brassy blondes.
Man on Fire builds and builds, no lookin’ back, falters not. Man! It leads us where we ‘espect, dig dis: to love, t’lose, t’go vigilante. Directo’ Tony Scott knows his target betta’ dan specialist Raz’tus Creasy (Denzel) his – and considerably mo’e dan Mr. Box Office Bon Vivants aka bozos.
To be some movie critic – let me ‘esplain t’de oft-disappointed who fo’go two hours uh keenly anticipated pleasho’ man on de wo’d uh dire cynics – requires fust dat ya’ lose faid in de message. De movie is, well … "heavy-handed and stiff, longwinded .. jittery .. trash .. meaningless(ly) stylistic .. conventionally dopey action plot .. "
Whilst treatin’ yo’self (go on! Right on!) ya’ gots’ta notice downon de screen no hysteria, no hypuh’bole, little licence, nada neurotics — plum professionals. All Creasy hears be "I’m some professional" – all ya’ gots’ta see be professionals. Economy, tempuh’nce, efficiency, taste and ambience. And time t’reflect, some wanin’ luxury in our modern hypuh’-flicks. Pity Walken gots’ta offa’ de spectrum’s slowa’ end backgrounders as required.
To be some film fokka’ furda’ specifies obsession wid media at ‘espense uh message. Whilst we who watch films fo’ pleasho’ man sit lappin’ every instant uh vintage Scott, Wuzhin’ton, Walken and (if such endurance should apply t’a child) Fannin’, our picky pundits see only .. "intrusive, fake-stylish camera tricks — jump cuts, speeded-up changes in light, color, saturation and focal depth."
Dank baaaadness ah’ dun didn’t see any uh dat. Man! Whut film wuz dey watchin’ (fo’ced yet again t’enquire)?
Sho’ man, dere wuz some high-saturashun, high-contrast, but Scott successfully max’ed potentially indecent violence wid documentary subliminals. We saw it, acknowledged da ploy, fo’gave, and urged him t’proceed wid de nasty lesson.
Like any hero tale around da campfire, we impotent meek uh dis barbaric age gain solace in comics uh sweet revenge.
