Danny Dyer. On the cover. Holding a gun. Must be another cockney gangster film methinks, but I couldn't be more wrong. What we have here is a dull and depressing drama in which several scuzzy Londoners cross paths during their everyday lives. No hard geezers carrying sawn-offs. No bent rozzers taking a bung. No suited and booted chancers ducking and diving. Just a whole lot of suicide, sex, murder and drugs, with a masturbating artist, a crippled hooker, a drunken ex-con, a mother looking for her dead son, a self destructive man and woman, and a gay autistic deaf bloke looking to get laid with a little help from his brother. While all of this sounds like the recipe for a sleazy slice of fun, the drama is played out in a very measured (ie., boring) manner, and frequently enters pretentious art-house territory, meaning that most Dyer fans will think it's a load of old pony. I did.
Review of City Rats
