Ryan Gosling played a strong, silent dreamboat in Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive, but he was positively chatty compared to his boxing-club owner-cum-drug dealer here.
Revelling in extreme kills, castration metaphors and karaoke, Refn’s Bangkok revenge drama stretches Drive’s stripped-back style and savagery to the limit.
At best, its sickly opulence, stealthy slow-burn and moody abstraction marry the influence of Lynch and Kubrick.
But Refn’s transgressive chic also rings humourless and hollow – and a bit more boring than a film starring Kristin Scott Thomas as a demonic mob mum has any right to be.
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