The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
(2015)
(SPOILERS) Guy Ritchie would evidently have liked to make a Bond film as much as his former producer
Matthew Vaughn, and either would undoubtedly add more spark to the franchise
than current darling Sam Mendes (lush cinematography or no lush
cinematography). While Vaughn brokered his fandom into a patchy but violent and
vibrant original earlier this year (Kingsman:
The Secret Service) and won considerable box office as a result, Ritchie
picked up Steven Soderbergh’s discarded menu items and went with refashioning
an existing property, one he had no yearning interest in. Sometimes that shows
in the result, but mostly The Man from
U.N.C.L.E. is a breezy, playful exercise in period spyfare. As such, it’s a
shame this looks destined to remain a one-time only outing.
Which isn’t to say there’s necessarily much else left to do
with it (one can imagine desperate approaches like throwing them into the ‘70s
a la Austin Powers and X-Men), but the amount of fun Ritchie
has spinning his take on the mood, energy and imagery of the period is
infectious. He’s since moved on to his (intended as, but let’s see how the
first one does) multi-part reinvention of the legend of King Arthur (Knights of the Roundtable: King Arthur),
which doesn’t bode well when descriptions of Arthur as a street kid are thrown
about (it really needs to be more Excalibur
than Clive Owen; this one sounds like a medieval Kingsman), but he’s surpassed my low expectations before. I’m a
big fan of his two Downey Jr Sherlock
Holmes (much more so than the self-glorifying Steven Moffat one that gets
all the plaudits), but I wasn’t hopeful. And The Man from U.N.C.L.E. didn’t look up to much from the trailers, giving
off the vibe of trying for a tone but failing to nail it. The finished film
suggests more that it’s simply a difficult marketing challenge, and the tepid
(at best) reception confirms it.
Spy movies may be doing well at the moment (very well, with Kingsman, Mission: Impossible 5 and SPECTRE
all winners this year, the latter a sure thing), but trying to convince viewers
to sign on to a big screen version of 50-year old TV show without any hook
telling them why is a big ask. Mission:
Impossible in 1996 had Cruise at his peak as a dangling carrot, not to
mention a signature tune nearly as distinct and galvanising as Bond’s, and the attraction of now-get-out-of-that
tension filled set pieces. That didn’t make it a sure thing, but it’s easy to
see the pull. It was also set in the present day. It’s essential to do a Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy as a period
piece, but that comes with the paraphernalia of “serious” spy genre fare (as Bridge of Spies will be later this
year).
U.N.C.L.E. might
have sold viewers if it had taken the Sherlock
Holmes route, of transferring a kinetic, modern sensibility in a ‘60s
setting, but even Ritchie’s much-loved (and to be fair, he has honed them, and
does them incredibly well, though I’m not sure how they’ll surface in King Arthur – probably via Merlin’s
sleight of hand) “explanation montages” are elegant and smooth rather than fast
and furious. While Ritchie fully embraces the period, one can’t help feel he’s
doodling here; perhaps the third Holmes film didn’t get off the ground as
quickly as he hoped. Certainly, that he ended up with the property is more than
might have been expected for an adaptation that has taken more than 20 years to
get to screen.
While Steven Soderbergh was with it for the longest time
(the deal breaker being budget, but it can’t have helped that buddy Clooney
decided he was too old and injured), Tarantino was interested way back (the
same retro interest that saw him suggest a period Casino Royale). Also involved at various points where Matthew
Vaughn (he really wants a Bond film, doesn’t he, almost as much as
Christopher Nolan wants to remake On Her
Majesty’s Secret Service - although Vaughn's once presumed parentage might have been a factor) and David Dobkin (dodged a bullet there, ditto
with his modern day Arthur and Lancelot).
Warner Bros will no doubt be questioning their choice of second or third choice leading men right now
(or indeed greenlighting the thing in the first place) but it’s downright
baffling that anyone thought Cruise was a good idea for the picture prior to
Cavill entering the frame. Firstly, he’s no longer the draw he was, but mainly
what kind of confusion/lack of differentiation didn’t everyone think would
occur with him playing another cheesy grinning spy in another resuscitation of
a ‘60s TV show? The only mystery is that he didn’t see the futility and was
actually attached for a spell (it was Rogue
Nation that finally led to him ditching it).
Like me, Ritchie knew the series from ‘70s/‘80s BBC repeats.
His affection doesn’t really extend beyond a “Let’s try and capture the fun of it” (it was on a list of
properties Warners presented for inspection, rather than something he pursued).
But he does succeed in this ambition; tonally U.N.C.L.E. exudes lightweight ’60s sophistication, with only the
occasional stumble into Ritchie’s penchant for laddishness (a fellatio gag in a
gents toilet) and crude violence.
Being a pastiche of ‘60s spy movies, the prerequisite
elements are assembled by Ritchie and Lionel Wigram (collaborator on Sherlock Holmes as well as producer on
Ritchie and Harry Potter pictures);
the Berlin Wall, bugging devices (to the point of absurdity), gadgets (Soviet
ones are always better), crosses and double crosses, a villain's island lair, and of course, a nuclear
bomb. Nuclear secrets are the MacGuffin around which the plot revolves, and it
really is a MacGuffin. Ostensibly East meets West to track down (T.H.R.U.S.H.-less;
Ritchie must have taken a lot of arm-twisting to ditch them) independent
villains (they’re capitalists though, selling bombs to the highest bidder) a
nuclear scientist who has developed a means of enriching Uranium more
effectively than anyone else. With that goalpost loosely marked out, Ritchie
and Wigram can pretty much go anywhere and do anything they like in the name of
spy shenanigans, and the viewer will compliantly nod along for the ride. It
very much is Bond in all but name in that sense. It’s not the destination but
the journey that matters.
Unlike Bond
though, U.N.C.L.E. is a Ritchie
staple: the buddy movie. And it’s in this area Ritchie’s slightly at odds with
his usually assured sensibilities. He’s generally pretty good with casting and
chemistry, but he and Wigram have put the boot in before Napoleon Solo (Henry
Cavill) and Ilya Kuryakin (Armie Hammer) can even strike up discord leading to
bromance. With Solo they knock it out of the park; he’s smooth, suave, funny,
unflappable, determinedly un-macho (he’s even granted the more earthy culinary
skills of Harry Palmer).
Essentially, this is a test run for Cavill as Bond
(except he’s having more fun as Bond than anyone since Roger Moore, which is a
no-no under the current dour remit) and he’s outstanding. Admittedly, my
experience of his work is limited (Stardust,
Immortals, Man of Steel) but none of those actually give him a chance to have
fun. And he’s a natural, walking off with the picture with aplomb; if the
picture were as wholly assured as Cavill is, it would be an instant classic.
The problems arise with Kuryakin, the more interesting of
the duo on TV because he was somewhat remote and enigmatic. Here, Ilya’s an
open book; a guy with a hot temper due to parental crises (the end credits even
give him an Oedipus Complex, afflicted by a treasonous father and a loose
mother), it’s a wonder he ever passed muster as a spy when he goes off the deep
end at the slightest provocation. Kuryakin’s essentially the heavy to Solo’s
sophisticate (though they both know their fashion; the scene where they vie
over Gabby’s wardrobe is probably the one in which Ritchie most tips his hand
as to his own sensibilities), and it seriously undermines him. We can’t take
seriously his sub-Darkman scenes
where you wouldn’t like Ilya when he’s angry; the music gets intense and his
hand starts to tremor. The conceit flat-out doesn’t work, an attempt to distinguish
Kuryakin from Solo when sticking to the unknowable guy would have been much
more effective and in-keeping with the aimed-for tone.
Ilya’s tentative romance with Gabby Teller (Alicia Vicander)
fizzles too, as Hammer and Vicander have zero chemistry (Vicander’s and
Cavill’s however, is evident). Hammer isn’t outright bad, and has fun with his
mouthful of marbles Russian accent, but he doesn’t look like his character as
described and he doesn’t really mesh with his co-stars. Why a rigorous KGB
agent decides to sport stubble for most of the picture is beyond me (it doesn’t
even fit with his architect cover), but it further emphasises that Kuryakin is
off; this really Solo’s show alone, and Ritchie and Wigram appear to have
fitted out their Russian as an afterthought (possibly an echo of Cruise’s time
as lead).
This appears to be further evidence, following The Lone Ranger, that Hammer
doesn’t have the Midas touch of his grandfather; he seems to
be stuck with miscasting after miscasting when it comes to would-be star
vehicles (perhaps his home is as a character actor; see The Social Network and J.
Edgar). I’m not sure there needs to be a sense of camaraderie between Solo
and Kuryakin (as I say, my memory is the latter tended towards diffidence), but
there should be something between “Cowboy” and “Peril”. You end up engrossed in everything Solo does but little
caring for Kuryakin’s place in the scheme of spy things.
Vicander’s the third lead, and by the end the third U.N.C.L.E.
member (well fourth, if you include Waverly). She’s having a versatile year
with this and Ex Machina, and she
looks great in ‘60s fashions. Ritchie also serves her a plot twist that makes
her more than just the accessory of her male co-stars (albeit, I wouldn’t go as
far as saying she’s as well served as her counterparts in Fury Road and Rogue Nation).
Hugh Grant, picky with his projects these days and aware his
romcom days are waning, is a treat as Waverly; different to Leo G Carrell, but
bringing everything familiarly toff-ish about his persona bar the stutter to
the table. His English superiority is very amusing, and it’s interesting to see
him to take that de facto role away from Cavill as soon as he enters the scene
proper. Elsewhere, Jared Harris (Moriarty from the second Holmes) chews on heavy-duty ‘50s spook delivery as Solo’s boss.
The villains are mixed. Luca Calvani is completely
forgettable as Alexander Vincinguerra, but Elizabeth Debicki makes up for it as
wife Victoria. Victoria’s really in charge and also looks fantastic in frocks.
It shouldn’t be any surprise, as Debicki stole her every scene in The Great Gatsby. If there’s a problem
here, it’s that Ritchie’s having so much fun with his milieu, the duo never
take on a real sense of threat or purpose.
He saves this for Nazi war criminal and torturer Uncle Rudi
(Sylvester Groth) and tonally it feels as if Ritchie’s stepped over the line
from frivolous froth into unpleasantness. Rudi indulges a Hitler show reel
reminiscence before giving Solo the old electroshock treatment. Presumably Ritchie’s
summoning Bond circa Goldfinger, and he tries to maintain an
amusing touch throughout the sequence, but even when it comes to Solo and
Kuryakin debating whether to turn Rudi in while he fries in the next room (the third
time Ritchie has used a foreground/ background gag in the picture) it’s a bit
jarring given the frivolity that has gone before. It’s a reminder, along with
angry Ilya, that Ritchie’s never that far away of his favoured rawer, blokey
persona, however he dresses it up.
This is an effective sequence in and of itself, however, and
Ritchie masterminds several perfectly-judged set pieces elsewhere that show him
at his keenest, entirely delivering the relaxed, offhand thrills he’s aiming
for. Best of them is the opening, where Napoleon rescues Gabby from East Berlin
with Ilya hot on their heels. It’s an extended sequence, riding on Solo’s easy
self-confidence, one that seems to end after Ilya’s car crash but then kick-starts
once more with renewed energy. I particularly liked the conceit of Gabby’s car wedging
between two buildings, only for Solo to direct her to take a left (out of her
window and through one of the neighbouring apartment blocks). Ritchie’s pacing
of set pieces is acute and delightful (it’s hard to pick between him and Vaughn
on that score, but I’d probably give Ritchie the nod for the most polish).
Later, following an attempt to rob a safe (it’s empty), Ilya
and Napoleon flee in a speed boat, only for the latter to end up in a truck cab
munching a sandwich and drinking port while Kuryakin is pursued in the
background in every decreasing circles. It sums up the tone of the piece
beautifully, and even concludes with a neat bit of problem solving as Napoleon
opts to rescue his not-yet-buddy by landing on the pursuing vessel and using
the headlights of the now submerged truck to locate his lifeless body.
The aforementioned explanation montages are good fun too, in
the main inessential (there’s nothing there we couldn’t work out for ourselves,
from Gabby’s apparent betrayal then discovery of her real boss, to
pickpocketing Waverly and Victoria, to the finale with the rocket) but a neat
stylistic flourish that again adds to the pictures sense of knowing exactly
what it wants to be. That’s also the case with assault on the Vincinguerras’
island fortress (a tasty bit of split screen work that dispenses with all the
boring fireworks so we can get on to the next scene). Budget-led or not, the
choice to have the villain outwitted in the finale rather than perish in a big
set piece is welcome, and off the back of Rogue
Nation doing likewise may show at least a few filmmakers out there coming
to the realise that more isn’t always more (Marvel could take note).
The prior fisticuffs are less satisfying (where Ilya gets angry
and sticks the knife in), since it again slips into Ritchie overcooked grit
(maybe not the full RocknRolla, but
don’t give him ideas), but the preceding cross-country chase features some nice
ideas about using geography to advance the narrative (Solo gives up on the deep
water pursuit and moves on to a shallow stretch to make up ground, while Ilya,
Steve McQueen-like on a motorbike, takes it all in from a distance).
There are other welcome signs of a Ritchie able to stand
back and take it all in from a distance. Slow motion is out, and in is a
willingness to linger on a shot; the slow pullback of Gabby in bed is
self-consciously arty, but you’d never have seen it in an early Ritchie
picture. The yellow writing, the bane of a cheap (TV) movie of the ‘60s and
‘70s is employed with glee, and becomes a badge of pride. Meanwhile, Daniel
Pemberton’s evocative score is a period-friendly delight, adding enormously to
the sense of time and place. If we’re comparing Ritchie and Vaughn, there’s
nothing between them when it comes to musical choices. Both have a near sublime
understanding of what a picture needs to work; how often do you get a really
great Hans Zimmer score (Sherlock Holmes)?
John Mathieson previously photographed the ‘60s for Vaughn
with X-Men: First Class and he ensures
everything here shines with Euro swank and tastefulness. Ritchie has perhaps
surprisingly skirted the line where Man
from U.N.C.L.E. becomes camp, as one would expect it to be exactly the kind
of fare indulged as pure kitsch wink-winkery (think Modesty Blaise, Our Man Flint,
or even The President’s Analyst). Or
it might have been made as a Starsky and
Hutch-esque comedy vehicle, still the case with many a TV reboot where the
studio is at loss what to do with something they feel might, in some way, make
them some money (CHiPs will be one).
More often than not, this attitude turns out to be a waste of time and expense
(look at the number of horror remakes in the last few years).
Against the odds, though, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. has justified its existence, even the box
office response looks to be no more appreciable than another Warners ‘60s spy
TV adaptation (the disastrous 1998 Ralph Fiennes The Avengers). The best comparison is probably the mid-Connery Bonds, self-aware but not actually
mocking or overblown. There are maybe a few too many longueurs around the
midpoint, and Hammer is miscast and Ilya mischaracterised, but Ritchie’s
picture turns out to be one of the better entries in 2015’s summer. Lightweight
is okay sometimes, certainly when it’s delivered with this much panache.
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