When you think about male British actors in Hollywood, you can pretty much narrow them down into two distinct categories: the thespian and the movie star. The cultured thespians like Laurence Olivier (dear, dear Larry) or Daniel Day Lewis become the part, meticulous in their preparation, changing their accents, devouring Oscars, the working-class movie stars like Michael Caine or Sean Connery are the part, consummate professionals who keep their accents no matter what the film dictates, devouring paycheques and cultural worship.
Both approaches are equally valid (this critic worships at the alter of DDL) but if you happen to be a working-class lad from London and Essex then there is still something thrillingly primal watching Jason Statham geezer it up on the streets of LA in Wrath of Man. We don’t need convoluted exposition to explain why his character, H, is at home with the Angelino low-lifers, we just know that he belongs there, his cockney accent cutting through the La La Land bullshit like a fucking straight razor.
The fact that Statham has teamed up with his old mucker/director Guy Ritchie points to another gear shift in Statham’s excellent but unlikely career from diver, to model, to ducker and diver, to DTV star, to bona fide action star and then to franchise stalwart.
This isn’t wise cracking, motor mouth Statham, this is Statham as full-on torpedo of vengeance launched in the lowest depths of the coldest of oceans against his wrong doers. Who knows how lockdown affected Statham? But in this movie, he’s not round housing bottle tops in one social media take but taking the tops of heads off of anyone who stands in his way. The Cool Britannia Statham of the 90s has mutated into the cruel Britannia Statham of austerity, Brexit and the deadly UK response to the pandemic.
Wrath of Man is a remake of the French film, Cash Truck and in the enforced absence of Marvel hegemony we might, in this tight window of opportunity, just be rediscovering our love for mid-range action movies with a harder edge. The fact that Statham has teamed up with his old mucker/director Guy Ritchie for this movie and the forthcoming spy thriller, Five Eyes, points to another gear shift in Statham’s excellent but unlikely career from diver, to model, to ducker and diver, to DTV star, to bona fide action star and then to franchise stalwart.
Clearly distance makes the heart grow fonder and Wrath of Man sees both men at the top of their game. Ritchie has pared back his flashy pyrotechnics for a more nuanced approach, check out the opening security truck heist that leaves us stuck in the back with the cash peering to see what is happening. Later he gradually unfolds the narrative like a restrained poker player who has just come back from a screening of Rashomon. He may never have been better. Statham says little but oozes mystery and menace, to compare him to Michael Caine in Get Carter is not the over statement you may think it is.
Part heist movie, part bleak revenge thriller, Statham and Ritchie are ably abetted by some gritty character actors and former matinee idols from both sides of the Atlantic – most of whom end up on the mortuary slab in a bloody mess. Standouts are Josh Hartnett as Boy Sweat Dave, who reminds us of what we are missing as a leading man and Scott Eastwood as Jan, who channels the darker side of his father, all ticks and squints, a reminder that when Clint Eastwood needs to be de-aged, we can call up his son. But from the minor villains Darrell D’Silva jumps out at you with his magnificent hair and beard, a brooding presence whom sooner or later will play George Clooney’s brother in a movie. Maybe they’ll be in a spin off called Wrath of Men?