What emerges is a scattershot of subplots, vaguely tied together by the search for a big hat in Osama’s gang and the moral malaise assailing field agent DiCaprio beneath the brunt of commander Crowe’s callous philosophy. The script hints at wisdom, moral complexity, suspense even, but it’s all too jargonised and impatient. There isn’t a better eye in the business, but where’s all this panoptic godliness getting us. Hire him to Camcorder your wedding, and he would demand a fusillade of wind-machines and have the bride drop-in by crane.
Nothing escapes Scott’s Olympian aesthetic. A vast rubbish tip becomes a lunar crater ringed in biblical light. Soon enough, it’s clear which Scott we’re basking in.Īs an Arab city-block is shot from on high, or a camera cuts across a jeep spraying perfect jets of dust, everything looks glorious. Scott certainly hits the ground running with Al-Qaeda’s Manchester branch hitting the panic button, turning a humdrum terrace into a trillion bits of humdrum terrace - an explosion of such high-impact, thousand-angle, pop-pyrotechnic hoopla, including a natty slo-mo shockwave effect, you wonder if Ridley has gone all Tony on us. Now we’re bang up-to-date following a CIA operative through Terror’s uneasy backwater. Even so, 26 years later, Sir Ridley Scott is still conjuring rapturous atmospherics, but his new CIA thriller feels sorely in need of a plot.īased on Washington Post columnist David Ignatius’ novel, Body Of Lies marks the conclusion of the director’s recent trilogy of East-West snarl-ups that began with Somali ram-raid Black Hawk Down, before dropping a few centuries forKingdomOfHeaven. When it dawned on us that neon-lit dystopia and plot were inseparable, it was swiftly reclassified a masterpiece. One of the criticisms levelled at Blade Runner on its debut was that while its director strained every sinew to render a mind-blowing vision of our near future, he didn’t give a bugger about the story.
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