I’ve decided to employ Fidget on a freelance basis (i.e. I’m not paying him) after his relentless mithering during various films I’ve seen recently that have failed to hold my attention for very long. It’s at the point in a movie when my mind wanders and I start thinking about why there’s always one teaspoon left in the washing up bowl when you empty the water out that Fidget appears and starts prodding me, making me shift about in my seat, or sprinkles magic sleepy dust in my eyes, making it difficult to stay awake and keep track of what little is going on on screen.
Fidget’s contribution to The Incredible Suit is The Fidget Factor, a measurement of what percentage of a film’s running time is taken up with daydreaming, restless twitching and involuntary drooling from the corner of one’s gobhole.
London Film Festival screening of Un Prophète (trans: A Prophet. Fluent, me). Now it’s a dangerous thing to describe a film in your Festival bumf with words like “astounding”, “crime drama of the year”, “visceral intensity”, and especially the phrase “More exciting than Mesrine”, because a) that is a lot of exciting thrillery to live up to and b) Mesrine had me on a diet of fingernails for the best part of four hours.
Needless to say it was a bit rubbish. A French prison drama about a petty crook who comes under the wing of a mid-level Corsican mobster in chokey and eventually starts to take charge of his own blood-soaked destiny, A Prophet is about 45 minutes too long and severely lacking in anything approaching the “visceral intensity” or “fingernail-biting anticipation” promised by the LFF. If Jacques Mesrine had been incarcerated in this prison he’d have broken out for a café au lait and broken in again before anyone had noticed he’d gone.
So The Incredible Suit gives A Prophet an uninspiring five out of ten, but more importantly, what does Fidget say?
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