The first 20 minutes of the new British prison drama “Bronson” are so electric, so inspired that you lose your breath and then wonder, “what’s next?”
That “Bronson” doesn’t answer that question doesn’t ruin the ride.
It makes sense that “Bronson” can’t keep up its delirious pace. But what follows neither enlightens us as to its main character, a real live thug who became England’s most notorious criminal, nor examines the reasons for his punch-happy lifestyle.
“Bronson” starts with the erstwhile Michael Peterson (Hardy) telling us he had a picture perfect childhood and suffered no major injustices which might explain his addiction to violence.
His formative years whiz by in a sea of fisticuffs and police reprimandings. His parents seem immune to his arrests and other foul behavior, so Peterson continues punching first and asking questions of himself later.
He ends up behind bars, a punishment which might roil some people. Not Peterson, who likens jail to life in a hotel. Being behind bars doesn’t curtail his violent ways. It actually exacerbates his anti-social behavior, giving him a long line of victims to assault, from well meaning guards to fellow prisoners.
The unconventiona prisoner eventually assumes the name Charlie Bronson, a moniker inspired by the late action movie hero.
And even though he eventually gains his freedom, it’s clear he’s destined to return to prison before lont.
Bronson addresses the audience directly in the early stages mostly, sometimes wearing grease paint as if he’s a clown eager to amuse us. His rage is part performance art, part cathartic fisticuffs which leaves a procession of guards and fellow prisoners in a bloody heap.
Director Nicolas Winding Refn treats the material like fellow Brit Guy Ritchie might, transforming a remarkably repellent criminal into a charismatic anti-hero.
But the real crime is how Refn squanders Hardy’s brutally effective turn. The film never gets under Bronson’s skin, and later revelations regarding the prisoner’s artistic talents do little to expound upon his state of mind.
We’re left with an amusement park ride masquerading as a feature film, one with glorious slow-motion sequences set to classical music that never coalesces into a true character study.
We see Bronson grapple with erectile dysfunction, or something equally frustrating, and some time spent as a bare-knuckler pugilist. But each episode appears in isolation with Refn unable to thematically link each to the narrative.
“Bronson” resembles a low-grade spin on “A Clockwork Orange,” a tale lacking vision but one that never skimps on the ol’ ultra-violence.
(Photo: “Bronson” tells the true story of England’s most notorious criminal. Photo courtesy of Magnolia Pictures)
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