I'll Sleep When I'm Dead (2003)

Brief: Will Graham (Clive Owen) has been in hiding from his mob life for three years. Following his brother Davey's (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) suicide, Will returns to London to figure out why his little brother would kill himself, given that he was neither suicidal nor did he kindly leave a note behind.

The movie built on lies! And stupidity!

If you happen to see a trailer for this movie or read any other short plot descriptions for it, you might think that Will doesn't believe that Davey would kill himself, so he sets out to find his killer. That's what I sure thought the movie was about.

And, given that the preview and every plot description known to man tells you that Davey's dead and Will's got questions on his mind, you wouldn't think that they would waste a solid twenty minutes of 103 they've got on setting up his suicide and Will's eventual return, would you?

Well, you're wrong. Because they do. They do in order to bore and horrify you.

Also, given that Malcolm McDowell features prominently in the trailer and ads, it's pretty obvious who is going to be the villain of this piece. It's not like you see Will head home, start putting the pieces together, and finally heartbreakingly realize that Davey did indeed kill himself, and there's horrific reason why.

I think I would have liked that movie.

No one will successfully beat out Owen as the manliest man in Mantown for years, so it's fantastic when he does manly man things like be hard boiled and plot revenge. And when he throws in a little inner turmoil for good measure? All the better to make you swoon, my dear.

As for Rhys-Meyers, despite his fish eyes and androgyny, I'm starting to believe that he's the best sad pretty boy around. He's like the coolest, prettiest boy in high school, all sensitive and charming until the moment you piss him off. Then he dismisses you with an icy stare and a lip sneer. Push your luck beyond that, and he's likely to slit your throat in the lunch line.

I like what I've seen so far from director Mike Hodges since he made Owen famous with Croupier and turned Ryan Gosling into a bona fide sex god with Murder by Numbers. He's moody and arty and minimalist in a way that I enjoy.

So I place the blame squarely on writer Trevor Preston's shoulders, who didn't do anything worth note before this and hasn't had a screenplay produced since. Anyone who thinks leaving Charlotte Rampling hostage for all eternity with some nameless stooge is a good ending is clearly an idiot. D