Ironclad
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Jonathan English's largely disposable Ironclad depicts specific, if not wholly accurate events at a very specific time and place, but this deeply generic film is as forgettable as any trashy straight-to-DVD action flick. We are in England, 1215, and a wave of Christianity is being spread by France throughout Europe. In response to what he sees as biblical mutiny, King John (Paul Giamatti) employs a large battalion of Danish pagans as mercenaries to take back the land and God-given rights his recent signing of the Magna Carta forced him to abandon. One of John's erstwhile barons, Albany (Brian Cox, going through the motions), intuitively understands that the only way to stave off John's onslaught is to bunker inside Rochester Castle. But he needs men for the impending battle -- men with a skill for death.
In a sequence that will prove unfamiliar only to those who think Akira Kurosawa is an RPG character, the Baron rounds up a small, elite battalion of his own, including an obese family man (Rhys Parry Jones), a ruthless cocksman (Jason Flemyng), a humorous convict (Jamie Foreman), a solemn archer (Mackenzie Crook) and a neophyte (Aneurin Barnard). The final piece of the puzzle is a mysterious, quiet Knight Templar, Thomas (James Purefoy), who upholds his holy duty as a defender of the faith with unwavering dedication despite the teetering dissolution of his church's power. This band of outsiders arrives at Rochester to find themselves unwanted by a cowardly overseer (Derek Jacobi) and his lovely bride (Kate Mara), many years his junior. The King and his band of mercenaries, led by the kind of towering hulking leader (Vladimir Kulich) that is bound to face-off against the comparatively miniscule Thomas, arrive shortly thereafter. That's when the bloody theatrics begin.
Like any number of films with this particular structure, Ironclad follows a certain narrative tug-of-war between the sufficiently engaging siege sequences and the near-unbearable, utterly predictable passages of brittle drama and dull romance that are meant to reinforce the action. But as the film is written, by the director, Erick Kastel and Stephen McDool, the questions of faith, love, justice, and camaraderie that are constantly regurgitated throughout the lulls are of an astoundingly plain sort, completely devoid of any originality, nuance, or personal weight. Hence, the performers, who have all proven at the very least compelling in other roles, have little to give the audience to distract from the placid, sickeningly ordinary direction of Mr. English, whose only past directing credits are (surprise) straight-to-video releases.
Nevertheless, there is a certain fire in Ironclad's belly, and its name is Paul Giamatti, who is quite simply one of the greatest living character actors currently working on this planet. Anger has always been Giamatti's secret weapon, one that he rarely gets to fully indulge in, but witness his work in Shoot 'Em Up and The Haunted World of El Superbeasto and you see a great performer cutting loose, allowed himself to enjoy the guilty pleasures reaped from his more demanding, "serious" roles. His concluding speech to Albany is a furious bellow that, for a moment, clears the dense, equivocal thicket of political and religious rigmarole and cuts to the heart of King John's unyielding rampage. Would that Thomas, Albany, or even Mara's Lady Isabel were given scenes that so viscerally confronted their fears, flaws, and dark impulses. Sadly, it is clear that English is in the business of cheap thrills; admittedly, one could do a lot worse in that particular realm than Ironclad. The question is, as we approach the dog days of summer and the inarguable low point of the movie year, do we really need another mediocrity that we can only loudly tout as suitable?
In a sequence that will prove unfamiliar only to those who think Akira Kurosawa is an RPG character, the Baron rounds up a small, elite battalion of his own, including an obese family man (Rhys Parry Jones), a ruthless cocksman (Jason Flemyng), a humorous convict (Jamie Foreman), a solemn archer (Mackenzie Crook) and a neophyte (Aneurin Barnard). The final piece of the puzzle is a mysterious, quiet Knight Templar, Thomas (James Purefoy), who upholds his holy duty as a defender of the faith with unwavering dedication despite the teetering dissolution of his church's power. This band of outsiders arrives at Rochester to find themselves unwanted by a cowardly overseer (Derek Jacobi) and his lovely bride (Kate Mara), many years his junior. The King and his band of mercenaries, led by the kind of towering hulking leader (Vladimir Kulich) that is bound to face-off against the comparatively miniscule Thomas, arrive shortly thereafter. That's when the bloody theatrics begin.
Like any number of films with this particular structure, Ironclad follows a certain narrative tug-of-war between the sufficiently engaging siege sequences and the near-unbearable, utterly predictable passages of brittle drama and dull romance that are meant to reinforce the action. But as the film is written, by the director, Erick Kastel and Stephen McDool, the questions of faith, love, justice, and camaraderie that are constantly regurgitated throughout the lulls are of an astoundingly plain sort, completely devoid of any originality, nuance, or personal weight. Hence, the performers, who have all proven at the very least compelling in other roles, have little to give the audience to distract from the placid, sickeningly ordinary direction of Mr. English, whose only past directing credits are (surprise) straight-to-video releases.
Nevertheless, there is a certain fire in Ironclad's belly, and its name is Paul Giamatti, who is quite simply one of the greatest living character actors currently working on this planet. Anger has always been Giamatti's secret weapon, one that he rarely gets to fully indulge in, but witness his work in Shoot 'Em Up and The Haunted World of El Superbeasto and you see a great performer cutting loose, allowed himself to enjoy the guilty pleasures reaped from his more demanding, "serious" roles. His concluding speech to Albany is a furious bellow that, for a moment, clears the dense, equivocal thicket of political and religious rigmarole and cuts to the heart of King John's unyielding rampage. Would that Thomas, Albany, or even Mara's Lady Isabel were given scenes that so viscerally confronted their fears, flaws, and dark impulses. Sadly, it is clear that English is in the business of cheap thrills; admittedly, one could do a lot worse in that particular realm than Ironclad. The question is, as we approach the dog days of summer and the inarguable low point of the movie year, do we really need another mediocrity that we can only loudly tout as suitable?
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