By Sandy Scott

Pretentious? Yes. Self-indulgent? Yes again.

Too many cigarettes are smoked in this and there are too many jazz references. I’LL SLEEP WHEN I’M DEAD is a film that wants to be set in New York, but instead takes place in a cold, damp, dreary London (there’s a twist).

The only funny moment comes when the eventual victim of the story Davey (JONATHAN RHYS MEYERS), takes a cab driven by a stoner, who suddenly stops in the middle of nowhere, grabs his ghetto blaster and announces he is moving to New York . Nice. But that worked in AFTER HOURS and not since, and is totally out of kilter with the tone of the rest of the film.

I call it “film” because it has that auteurish feel to it, takes itself very seriously. The kind of project that you felt the director Mike Hodges set out to make for himself without much concern for an audience, and it shows.

The London Hodges shows us, does not work as a setting for what is a very straight forward film noir. Will (CLIVE OWEN) comes to town to avenge the death of his brother Davey. He does a bit of research, finds the bad guy and blows him away, LA FIN.

We are told that he used to be a big time gangster, that something happened and that he now lives in a rusty van driving around England aimlessly. But we are never told what happened to him. He says that he has changed, that he no “longer drinks” etc. only to see him get right back into gangster mode, drink in hand minutes later, without much internal conflict on the way from a to b. There is nothing in the writing or enactment that makes us sit up and get into him. The world is full of messed up characters, why does this one deserve 102 minutes of my life?

There is a sub-plot about Will’s former gangster competitors worried about his return, but it goes nowhere and is non-complimentary to the central plot.

There is none of the wit and genius of a LOCK STOCK or TRAIN SPOTTING. There are no entertaining twists and turns in the plot, no surprises, just CLIVE OWEN & CHARLOTTE RAMPLING perfecting the dead pan, no emotion, school of acting guide to uninspired filmmaking.

JONATHAN RHYS MEYERS’ interpretation of “Davey” the cocky lad who gets in a spot of bother is more fleshed out, but again does not bring anything to the table that we have not seen before.

JAMIE FOREMAN as “Mickser”, Davey’s friend, does bring some welcome variety, pathos and emotion to his role.

I know archetypal film noir tough guys are meant to be stone faced and mono-syllabic, but they only become interesting when we see a glimpse of their human side, their weaknesses, some contrast. This simply does not happen here, none of the characters enjoy any form of arc. They arrive grumpy, they stay grumpy and they leave grumpy.

On another note the class observations espoused by the film are facile. Yet again, the good guys are the east-enders with a “heart of gold”, trying to take care of their own. If it were not for the horrible, “upper-classes” corrupting these poor lads with all their money and debauchery they would live in a heaven of “cuppas” and “jam butties”. Well pardon this ex-Londoner for finding that to be a bit simplistic. Gratuitous working class worship was more intelligently addressed in films like THIS SPORTING LIFE, 40 years ago, with Lindsay Anderson’s poignant observation that it’s not about class, stupid, but self-destructive human nature, which clearly transcends class barriers.

Having said all that, the film is at times entertaining despite all the baggage it brings to the table. There are moments of truth, moments from the “shit happens” school of life in which few things ever happen for a reason or make sense. But does that make for good entertainment? Having your bad guy Boad (MALCOLM McDOWELL) face his executioner with a mea culpa that can be paraphrased as follows: “I did it, I killed him, because I did not like Davey”, is uninspired. We never see Davey doing anything to Boad; we never even see the two of them in a room. The result? The entire motivation for Boad’s attack is an emotional non-sequitor delivered to us via bland exposition. Whatever happened to “show, don’t tell?”

Technically the movie feels “small”. As if shot on 16mm. The sets are claustrophobic. The vibrant party city London , is shown as a Hieronymus Bosch inspired canvas with no redeeming features. To be simplistic, if you want your audience to be affected by the “rain”, they need to have seen the “sunshine” first. Constant “rain” is boring.

For some reason the director also has an aversion towards using tracking shots, creating a static aesthetic of actors walking in and out of frame.

It is laudable when a filmmaker takes a risk with a new way of telling a story, as long as he cares about involving his audience. Laudable even if he fails in his quest. But when he takes no risks?

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead, opens August 20, 2004, and is Rated "R" for language, rape scene, violent images and breif drug use. 103 minutes.