Just more proof that western civilisation has, indeed, lost all ability for critical thought, and that most of the commentators have never actually seen a truly genre-bending film, or one with a decent script and (gasp!) a plot.
"Locke" is like the plot lines of three seasons of a mediocre soap opera crammed into 84 excruciating minutes, with one character on screen the whole time, and others merely voices on a car phone.
It's about concrete, you see. Pouring it, preparing it, triple-checking it, getting people out of Indian restaurants to check on it again, yada, yada, yada. Mix in a a loveless one-night-stand with a stranger who pops us, seven months later, calling from the maternity ward (Surprise!), and a family at its wit's end because Da isn't at home to watch the footies and mom bought sausages and is even wearing "the shirt" - about which we hear at least a dozen times.
The one character we see is beyond a total jerk, putting at risk not only his reputation and entire professional life, but the lives of his wife and teenage sons, all for an attempt to be present (which he isn't) at the birth of the bastard he sired from a seemingly pathetic, lonely, older woman who he admits to not knowing.
While there may be something to be said about the technology of the entire film being a one-shot, driving from somewhere in the UK to London in, roughly, real time, it quickly becomes meaningless as there is no there there, except for endless repetition of syrupy lines to the loser's family, barking to work colleagues, and blabbering to the woman he knocked-up, apparently when drunk at a party after completing a job out-of-town.
This can't even legitimately be considered cinema; more like an ill-conceived audio book. Go watch some Goddard (Nouvelle vague) or Jean-Jacques Beineix (Cinéma du look).
"Locke" is like the plot lines of three seasons of a mediocre soap opera crammed into 84 excruciating minutes, with one character on screen the whole time, and others merely voices on a car phone.
It's about concrete, you see. Pouring it, preparing it, triple-checking it, getting people out of Indian restaurants to check on it again, yada, yada, yada. Mix in a a loveless one-night-stand with a stranger who pops us, seven months later, calling from the maternity ward (Surprise!), and a family at its wit's end because Da isn't at home to watch the footies and mom bought sausages and is even wearing "the shirt" - about which we hear at least a dozen times.
The one character we see is beyond a total jerk, putting at risk not only his reputation and entire professional life, but the lives of his wife and teenage sons, all for an attempt to be present (which he isn't) at the birth of the bastard he sired from a seemingly pathetic, lonely, older woman who he admits to not knowing.
While there may be something to be said about the technology of the entire film being a one-shot, driving from somewhere in the UK to London in, roughly, real time, it quickly becomes meaningless as there is no there there, except for endless repetition of syrupy lines to the loser's family, barking to work colleagues, and blabbering to the woman he knocked-up, apparently when drunk at a party after completing a job out-of-town.
This can't even legitimately be considered cinema; more like an ill-conceived audio book. Go watch some Goddard (Nouvelle vague) or Jean-Jacques Beineix (Cinéma du look).