An intriguing first scene that takes place in Berlin promised a good thriller; anything featuring Berlin is promising.
Nice font on the opening title, and the once omniscient James Rebhorn is briefly in it. Good job.
It’s so boring, though, and anything germane it had to say about amoral bankers was lost in the relentless, mind-crushing tedium. I was hoping for Jason Bourne meets Interpol. What I got was the urge to jettison The International (2009).
I lasted 46 minutes.
Atmosphere from the gods here.
It doesn’t even matter what the subject matter is – this is ridiculous in that it’s just Clive Owen narrating a few events. It’s so magisterial in its framing, the shot syntax, the subtext of the bare-bones screenplay, that I was kind of engulfed in it all despite not actively being engaged in the story. A brooding exercise in style.
Casino (1995) is the best movie about a casino, but this casino-based film isn’t about a casino; it could be set in a Lidl.
If that makes any sense.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 