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Christophe Gans' alleged "masterpiece" seems to trump itself up as one enormous, diabolical eruption of French insecurity that had stood suppression, until now, in the face of decades of oriental and American cinematic opulence. Conspicuously enough, the film plays as something of a stylistically eclectic response to Jet Li, Ang Lee, Clint Eastwood, Woo-ping Yuen, Jackie Chan, Merchant-Ivory, John Woo, and the Wachowski brothers all balled up into one. As would be expected, the final concoction simply reeks of reactionary excess, but that's somehow what lends the production its swagger and charm, a charm that could and should be congratulated without the burden of prudish dignity hanging over a viewer's shoulders. One would at least be well advised to abandon his reservations at the door. After all, isn't it reassuring to discover that even the French are willing to stoop to this level of bloated, joyously goofy entertainment? |
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Brotherhood of the Wolf |
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capsule review by André de Alencar Lyon |
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Christophe Gans |
