Guy Ritchie’s a con merchant. That is to say, a deeply conservative salesman.
His latest film is a London gangster thriller which contains indelicate language, not to mention bestiality (a man is given a date-rape drug so he’ll have sex with a pig). The Gentlemen is out to shock. Look closely, though, and you realise its values are old-school.
It’s more traditional than Ritchie’s first foray into cartoon geezer territory. At least in 1998’s Lock Stock And Two Smoking Barrels the heroes were young. The Gentlemen, by contrast, is an ode to experience. Middle-aged husbands save the day. Grizzled father-figures rule.
Possibly that’s because Ritchie himself is now 51. He’s spent the last decade in Hollywood making films some would describe as hit and miss. Still, he’s keen to look on the bright side (note the close-up of a poster for 2015’s The Man From U.N.C.L.E.) Yep, throughout The Gentlemen Ritchie strokes his own ego vigorously.
Brace yourself for a swank-fest. Beautiful American Mickey (Matthew McConaughey; coasting) is ready for early retirement. A languid self-made crim, he has lots of posh friends, an Essex wife, Rosalind (Michelle Dockery), and a marijuana empire he wants to sell to the highest bidder. Nerdy, greedy, penny-pinching Jewish millionaire Matthew (Jeremy Strong) is interested in getting his hands on all that weed. So is Dry Eye (Henry Golding), a footsoldier in a Chinese syndicate who has no respect for his elders and no respect for Mickey.
The Gentlemen - In pictures
In the words of Rosalind, “there’s f***ery afoot”. One of Mickey’s farms is raided by a group of Grime-loving teens, “The Toddlers”. Meanwhile, Mickey’s right-hand-man Raymond (Charlie Hunnam) gets a visit from Fletcher (Hugh Grant), a snooping hack with blackmail on his mind. And, oh yeah, a Russian oligarch is out for revenge. Is Mickey doomed? If only.
Luckily, many of the peripheral figures in this story are fun. Take Coach (Colin Farrell; radiating nuanced bonhomie), an Irish boxing coach whom The Toddlers look up to. When someone refers to “the posh part of Croydon”, Coach spits out the words, “There’s no posh bit of Croydon!” It’s not true (in real life, St George’s Walk is gentrified to the max).
Still, thanks to Farrell, I laughed out loud. The brilliant Dockery (using her own accent) is also mesmerising. The same goes for Grant (not using his). His character — a 21st-century Uriah Heep — is seedier than a condom in a playground. Since Grant is practically an anti-hacking activist, his presence here is being read as a neat swipe at gutter journalism. But wait. Fletcher’s editor, Big Dave (Eddie Marsan), is presented as a chippy oik and law unto himself.
The idea Big Dave might have powerful paymasters — figures who set the tabloid agenda — is barely touched on. In other words, Ritchie’s script distorts the issue of press misconduct beyond recognition. As it stands having Grant as Fletcher is confusing. It’s like Greta Thunberg popping up in a movie that portrays climate-change deniers as dim rednecks.
It’s possible to improve with age, but Ritchie hasn’t. Via this movie, he creates a club for old boys that’s horribly exclusive. His talented cast find ways to dazzle, but deserve so much better.
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