Sporting significantly more bulk than we’ve come to associate with him, Jude Law introduces himself as the loutish, incarcerated Dom Hemingway by singing the praises of his phallus while being serviced by a fellow inmate.
Just as he’s finding his spittle-punctuated oratorial form, he’s unceremoniously reminded that he doesn’t quite possess the staying power he fancied. Unfortunately, the film bearing his name suffers a similar deficiency, peaking well before anyone has enjoyed much gratification.
Having always demonstrated a certain chameleonic quality, it’s hardly surprising that Law rarely hits a false note while indiscriminately throwing fists as a vitriolic safecracker who’s released back into a London he barely recognizes.
After reintroducing himself in brutal fashion to the poor sod who had the misfortune of marrying his ex, Dom hooks up with his old sidekick (Richard E. Grant) and decamps to the countryside to collect a sizeable debt (and indulge in some bucolic debauchery that invites unfavourable comparisons to Grant’s notorious hedonism in cult classic Withnail & I). But soon enough, it’s back to the city as there’s still the matter of an estranged daughter (Emilia Clarke) to make amends with.
Tarantino-indebted chapter breaks suggest that there’s some actual structure to writer-director Richard Shepard’s script rather than just rudimentary segmentation. With a series of events standing in for a legitimate plot, this proves to be a redemption story that’s content to go through the belligerent paces rather than do any grunt work. Perhaps the blind rage that Law so effortlessly channels can be attributed to his own frustrations over bringing his A-game to what’s little more than a caricature study.
