Last month's movies today

It’s that time of year again when we can pretend to be distracted from the grimness of the post-Christmas and New Year but pre-holiday freezing wilderness by the glut of awards-bait filling up our cinemas.

There are still some movies coming out which aren’t up for any sort of baubles though - Gangster Squad is one of them, although it feels like a project that was commissioned with at least a vague hope of bagging a nomination or two. The trailer promises a glamorously gritty gangster piece, studded with moral ambiguity (the titular squad operating outside the law in an attempt to take down Sean Penn’s kingpin by any means necessary), a starry cast and - better yet - a supposedly true story as its inspiration.

So what went wrong? Well, you never really feel pulled in. Characters rarely stray beyond the generic, the squad including a clever-but-weedy type, a grizzled old-timer, a black guy and a token hispanic. Ryan Gosling, as a smooth young cop who doesn’t seem to give a damn at first but - you’ll never guess - turns out to be on the good guys’ side, seems to be acting in a different film to the rest, applying a hazy ambiguity which is more than the script deserves.

Meanwhile, we never really see just how Penn’s Mickey Cohen appears to have “taken over” LA with such alarming ease, apart from a requisite nastily violent bit at the start, and a couple of speeches to show that he’s a bit of an egomaniacal prick. Truly evil charisma, though, is somewhat lacking.

This is in stark contrast to Josh Brolin’s rigidly moral squad leader, whose wife is smart and caring so hey, we’re allowed to like him. The film works on a simple goodies vs baddies basis with splashes of grown-up violence to up the certificate, but it’s like going for a cinematic McDonalds - filling you up adequately at the time, but curiously insubstantial.

Still, at least it doesn’t overstay its welcome. Django Unchained is 165 minutes long. Every other reviewer will have said exactly the same thing, but maybe the only way Quentin Tarantino will realise his movies require more editing is if the entire western world shouts it loudly enough.

If he were an average director then of course nobody would care. Self-indulgence has not just always been writ large in QT’s work, it’s arguably been his entire raison d’etre. But Reservoir Dogs ran for a taut and tense 99 minutes. Pulp Fiction fitted several interlocking stories into its 154 minutes and applied a tricksy time structure to boot. Nearly three hours seems an awfully long time when the actual plot of Django is postage-stamp simple and - despite the ripe opportunities the slave-owning Deep South setting provides - meaningful historical insights are non-existent.

Instead, as with Inglourious, the period setting is mere backdrop for a tried-and-tested formula of quips, ultraviolence and visual flair. The lack of depth is not a problem in itself, as Django boasts more than its share of exhilarating filmmaking. The opening scene, where Christoph Waltz’s “dentist” (ie bounty hunter) frees Django from two redneck slaveowners sets a template with its mix of verbal dexterity and casual death-dealing. Tarantino still has the effortless ability to write dialogue which energizes his cast. Waltz confirms his status as a grade A screen presence, showing that he can do heroes and villains equally well, while Leonard DiCaprio wallows in his character’s filthy depravity.

Jamie Foxx does a decent job with what he’s given - in the historical context it’s forgiveable that his character is not the one driving the action for the most part, but more should have been made of the emotional side of his story, his reuniting with his wife getting rather lost amidst all that talking, shooting and dropping of n-bombs. In fairness I have no problem with latter, other than the sheer quantity of them being a symptom of the ludicrously long running time.

Beautifully-realised sequences, fantastic performances, genuine LOL moments (the Klan scene is a particular highlight) - Django has all these. When you add to the mix a directorial self-indulgent streak a mile wide, however (and presumably a gaggle of yes-men only too happy to facilitate it), you’re left with a film that conspires to be manifestly less than the sum of its parts. Dispiriting.