Like the screech of car tyres burning rubber before thundering off into the cold dark night, Richard Berry’s French mafia flick opens with much energy, a hail of bullets – 22 Bullets (to be exact) – and pools of ‘shedded’ blood.
Acting legend Jean Reno stars as a retired Marseille gangland boss, a man so feared and psycho, he once flew a private jet to Algeria to kill somebody who owed him money. In other words, if he’s wronged, he’ll track you down, make you pay – and then really make you pay.
Based on a biography of a real-life Marseille hard nut, Reno delivers a master class in emoting and kicking arse. He might be a total bastard, but he’s honourable and won’t tolerate anybody messing with his family.
The opening act attempts to keep the audience guessing which one of a parade of underworld bosses ordered the hit, but it’s pretty obvious from the outset. What gives 22 Bullets its strength also provides its weakness. We have three childhood friends who have grown up to be literally as thick as thieves. It wouldn’t even take Inspector Clouseau long to figure out who ordered the hit and why.
Berry’s style meshes Martin Scorsese-like flourishes with Guy Ritchie’s editing. It is messy, cliché-ridden stuff, but enjoyable nonetheless. And like a Scorsese gangster epic, there’s lots of sickening violence and dubious morals. The Marseille mafia talk respect, honour and pride while secretly plotting against each other. There’s one particularly gruesome scene involving a henchman of Reno’s having his head kicked like it was a football. Even those dishing out the punishment laugh about one man’s strike worthy of a place on O. Marseille’s bench.
Reno’s turn as an avenging angel is something we haven’t quite seen for a good fifteen years since Leon. Here he delivers rough justice with a steely eye and stoicism. The stand out moment features him crawling though layer upon layer of barbed wire. He’s ripped to shreds, but the determination to rescue his son demonstrates the man’s anger, drive and love.
Berry’s cinematography does justice to the unique city port of Marseille with its oldness meeting modernist environments. The sun-kissed photography makes a harsh movie look gorgeous.
It’s not vintage French cinema by a long stretch, but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi. It’s more in the vain of Luc Besson’s Gallic actioners, which have turned a great profit recently. Hey Reno, what’s French for va va boom?
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