Surveillance (review)
Jennifer Lynch is, like her famouser filmmaker dad David, totally demented. In a good way.
Jennifer Lynch is, like her famouser filmmaker dad David, totally demented. In a good way.
Only Quentin Tarantino — cinema’s bad boy, the film geek who’s film-geekier than thou — would have the balls to state, as *Inglourious Basterds* comes to a close, that this could well be his masterpiece.
David Twohy hopes you’re not as smart as he is. In fact, he’s counting on you being kinda dim.

Oh, how I wish this was a knowing parody, not an unwitting one. All the overbaked tropes of the genre are deployed: the “scary” music, the “menacing” camera angles, the telegraphing every boo.
This is a ridiculously entertaining night at the movies.
I cannot tell you how ineptly hilarious this ‘thriller’ is, from its weirdly retro vibe — as if the feminism of the 1970s, 80s, 90s and 2000s had not come between manhunting women and the poor saps they prey on — to its outrageous telegraphing of its “big’ finale.
Imagine that the nitwits who wrote those preposterous *Left Behind* apocalyptic end-times fantasies decided to try their pens at something *X-Files*-y…

It’s not that I don’t like fluff: it’s that I don’t like dumb fluff. And yet clever fluff is so very rare. So of course I cheer a hearty “Hoorah!” for Duplicity.
Corruption! High finance! Political murder! Clive Owen!
Now, don’t get me wrong: it’s not exactly a Hogan’s Heroes level of diminution, but there’s something honestly comic-book-esque about Valkyrie. I mean that in a good way…