Nothing would be easier than teeing off on Ridley Scott’s “The Counselor.” Oh, the jokes we could all make at the film’s expense – at, for instance, the tortuously literary tough-guy dialogue by Cormac McCarthy, and the high-gloss decadence of sadistic rich folks watching cheetahs running down rabbits over afternoon martinis. And, a while later, engaging in sexual congress with the windshield of a Ferrari.
Sorry, I’m not playing that game.
Two things are stopping me.
1. You can’t combine film and literature the way Sir Ridley is trying to in this movie, but I admire him for trying anyway. It’s a wildly ambitious thing for a filmmaker to do, even if it falls down with an echoing thud.
2. Scott’s shooting of the film was stopped in the middle for more than a week while he flew from London to Los Angeles to attend the funeral of his action maestro moviemaking brother Tony, who had just jumped off a Los Angeles highway bridge to his death.
So let the mockery come from elsewhere. I’m abstaining.
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