|
 In cinemas Thursday [M]
Director: Jonathan Ogilvie
Runtime: 104mins
On paper, The Tender Hook must have been an attractive prospect, based on a series of shady characters who tramped the streets of Sydney in the twenties and thirties. All the elements are there for a good film too: great costumes, beautiful sets – this was the art deco period, after all – a talented cinematographer, some innovative use of archival footage, and an interesting cast led by two of Australia’s most talented actors – Rose Byrne and Hugo Weaving. So what went wrong? The blame should probably lay at the feet of writer-director Jonathan Ogilvie, whose thin script and ordinary direction must have let his cast reeling like the boxers their characters hung around with.
This is vintage film noir territory, with a wicked villain, a flawed hero, and a complex femme fatale. Weaving plays the nasty McHeath, a Sydney identity whose penchant for singing in his own jazz bar hides a darker side that involves dodgy boxing promotion, extortion, and booze-running. His moll Iris (Rose Byrne) is happy to be kept on a velvet leash, as long as the bling and pretty clothes are kept in constant supply. But both of them are distracted by Art (Matt Le Nevez) who shows promise for McHeath in the ring, and promise in the sweat-soaked sack for Iris. Art is quickly hired as McHeath’s new golden-haired boy, and begins training with the disgruntled aboriginal punchy Alby (Luke Carroll), who can’t fulfil his own pugilistic potential because of his skin colour.
Supporting characters include McHeath’s constantly bickering henchman – staunch monarchist Ronnie (John Batchelor), and radical socialist republican Donnie (Tyler Coppin) – and the ditzy flapper-slapper, jazz/boxing groupie Daisy (Pia Miranda), who drives the heavies into crazy competition with her flirty disposition.
Ogilvies’s plot interleaves all the standard noir plots, including double-crosses, double-dealing, devious deaths and taking the odd dive as betrayals, murders and mutilations are handed out. But there’s nothing really new here; the fare served up is painfully stale, and the only really interesting things on offer are McHeath’s jazzed-up cover versions of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan tracks, or the muted political arguments between Ronnie and Donnie. Sadly, all of these are few and far between. The rest is a little like next morning’s bubble-and-squeak: rehashed leftovers that leave you wondering a few hours later why you bothered heating them up.
**
TIM MILFULL
|
| Comments are submitted for possible publication on the condition that they may be edited. Poster's IP addresses are logged. |
|
Be first to comment on this article
