Quando dirigi la trilogia noir definitiva è lecito che tutti si aspettino grandi cose da te. Quando poi il plot del tuo nuovo film è quello qui sotto le lacrime agli occhi sono obbligatorie.
Charlie Bronson, Britain’s most violent prisoner and the antihero of Nicolas Winding Refn’s tour de force, is a man with a calling. He just needed jail time to find it. In 1974, Charlie robs a post office and draws a seven-year sentence. But stone walls do not a prison make. His “hotel room” becomes an incubator for his art, which is violence. Taking a perverse glee in fighting, he’s sent to a mental institution, where, drugged and drooling, he still musters defiance. His eventual release is short lived, and he returns to jail. Placed in an art class, Charlie creates his masterpiece. It is not a painting. Though based on a real person, Bronson is less a biopic than a virtuosic explosion of style. With twisted imagery, the music of Wagner and Pet Shop Boys, and a stunning performance by Tom Hardy, Refn creates an aesthetic that is both complicit in Charlie’s violence but also theatrical. Charlie narrates his own story before an audience, and the movie is just an extension of this burlesque staging. Our moral compass reeling, we’re tempted to see him as an animal, but violence is simply the fullest expression of his identity. Overjoyed by his fame and ever-increasing capacity for harm, Charlie walks the cellblock beaming with pride. He has become somebody. He is—quite terrifyingly—the hero of his own story.
Nicolas Winding Refn è uno dei più promettenti registi europei. Annicchilente, senza limiti dettati dal pudore. Dotato di uno sguardo sul buio più impenetrabile. Lo stile cambia, ma il suo interesse per un'umanità disperata sembra lo stesso. La spettacolarizzazione della messa in scena (rispetto al linguaggio da documentario dei suoi precedenti lavori) pare il frutto di un viaggio dentro la testa di uno psicopatico piuttosto che il solito teatrino da crime movie stiloso. Film dell'anno. A priori.
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