There is a type of cinemagoer — let’s call them the sort of males who regard an episode of Danny Dyer’s Deadliest Men as gripping documentary — that will be left feeling short-changed by the time the credits to Malcolm Venville’s seamy examination of love, grief and morality eventually roll. Glance at the promotional poster and it shows every sign of being a straightforward East End gangland thriller: there’s the suggestive menace of the title, the almost exclusively blokey line-up and, at the centre, Ray Winstone, looking more than ever as though he were born to shank grasses and grimly look after his own.
But when we meet his character — an underworld thane called Colin Diamond — in the brilliant opening scene he’s sprawled on his back, weeping silently and listening to the maudlin melodrama of Harry Nilsson’s Without You (“I can’t liiiiiiive, if living is without you . . .”) on repeat. And, over the course of the film, he never quite manages to pull himself together. The reason? His wife, Liz (Joanne Whalley) has had an affair. The culprit? A studly French waiter we know only as Loverboy. The solution? A kidnapping, then lethal vengeance, executed in a grimy, semi-derelict hideout.
At least that’s the plan. Diamond has a bloodied Loverboy tied to a chair, but falters. His four lieutenants rally round and, between gulping back Scotch like it’s Tango, offer their encouragement. Old Man Peanut (John Hurt) is one part Father Jack, one part Steptoe, Mal (Stephen Dillane) is a sharply dressed hothead and Archie (Tom Wilkinson) an amiable fiftysomething who lives with his mum.
But it’s the gay gangster about town Meredith, played with a knowing urbanity by Ian McShane, who casually controls the room and, just as he did in Sexy Beast ( by the same writers, Louis Mellis and David Scinto), provides a cool counterweight to Winstone’s Everyman vulnerabilities. He’s an impossibly moreish character, especially during the droll flashback account of how he won £40,000 in less than six minutes at a casino.
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The performances are all note-perfect, but feel more suited to the stage than the screen. The lieutenants swear and gab in circles (think Guy Ritchie directing Pinter), while Diamond delivers monologues to his terrified captive on the quiet, steady joys of marriage. At times he drifts into strange, psychosexual deliriums, which is when both the drama and humour slackens. You start to crave a breakthrough — a change in pace or place — but every little diversion ultimately leads you back to a bleak room of swearing, Scotch, tears and blood.
Without a crack cast, attempting to pull off a film with such a static, contemplative plot would have been impossible. They succeed, just about, but at times it feels like a dangerous game.