Film

In terms of pure, hypermasculine entertainment, RocknRolla is a juicy chunk of swagger cinema, a foamy lager of double-crosses and chest-beating money swindles that flexes its muscle-bound cockney wit and street justice with a cheeky grin. After the ambitious debacle of his metaphysical gangster muddle, Revolver, Madonna’s boy-toy soon-to-be-ex-husband retains his signature constructs—the sardonic voiceover, the Rube Goldberg machinations, the eccentric cast of characters—but revives playfulness to please lad-mag readers wanting nothing more than Mexican standoffs with an EastEnders twist.

A dash of levity is key, and while Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch had almost too much to spare—to the point of being facile exercises in braggadocio—Ritchie’s latest is a sleeker model, less impetuous and more experienced. It’s certainly not mature or sophisticated, but it does have a slight sadness and a vulnerability that makes the lightheartedness seem bittersweet. Wilkinson’s old-world thug confronting an ascendant Russian horde, Newton’s weary accountant looking for a future, Butler’s macho ringleader showing surprising compassion toward a gay colleague: All of them have a shade more depth than the director’s stable of underworld stereotypes, which makes the film’s hint of a sequel (and Ritchie’s continuing career) actually feel somewhat inviting.