Tom Dooley
If you are an art-house aficionado then you may revel in this – so I am writing two reviews. The first is for the art-house lovers – here goes. This cinematic work opens with a landscape of washed out colours and the shot of a tormented soul who has lost all for a mere pocket full of silver. Pensive shots and a narrow aspect screen lending itself to the confines of a man whose existence has started to close in on him. The thirty pieces of silver that are constantly clinking in the pocket of the traitor; playing like a metronome for the death of his very soul. Coupled with minimal dialogue with his unwanted companion as if words are never going to be enough to describe the chasm that is the place where his heart once freely beat. Leading us, as if in a waking dream, to an inexorable dénouement that is already writ large.... And now for the viewer who just wants a good film... Two blokes ponce about in the woods – one with some Euros in his pocket and the other with a need to climb trees all the ruddy time. They say virtually nothing – which is good as they are both about as interesting as a hole in your underpants. Then they have a bit of a camp fire – go for a bit of skinny dipping and then sort of do nothing while the camera man leaves the film rolling and goes off to find something better to do – like clean his toe nails or something.This fails on every level, to be art house you need some 'art' or surely even a 'house' – this has neither and the plot is harder to find than a guilty investment banker. If you like good films then just pretend this was never made; it fails worse than a one armed chain saw juggler – with Alzheimer's – in a wind tunnel – on a uni cycle – with a puncture and a coughing fit – I think you get itAnd, dear reader, the truth is somewhere in the middle, that said I would still give it a swerve.
