Michael Flatley’s Blackbird is now – finally – playing in UK cinemas, and seeing it with a packed crowd is quite the experience.
I want to preface this piece with a hand on heart vow that I have deliberately not yet seen or read any other critiques as I write it, in order to be as truly objective as possible. There’s already rumour and mystery surrounding the film Blackbird – starring, written, directed and financed by Lord Of The Dance supremo Michael Flatley – that’s now finally getting a release four years after it premiered at London Raindance 2018 at a screening where press was banned. That Flatley subsequently won the best actor award at last year’s Monaco Film Festival with again, no press in attendance, only adds to the intrigue.
As I write this, it’s just turned midnight and, in a cruel turn of irony has become World Cinema Day. I’ve just got home from the opening night screening at the Prince Charles Cinema where a lively audience whooped and laughed their way through the full 83 minutes of Blackbird. The only problem is the film is definitely not an intentional comedy. It’s a deadly serious attempt at a Bond-style thriller about a former secret agent turned Barbados hotelier who gets sucked back in to his old life in order to save the girl and the world, while confronting the demons of his past.
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Victor ‘Blackbird’ Blackley is written as half 007, half Rick Blaine, each night dons a tuxedo and warmly shaking hands with his international clientele as he traverses his bar, drawing admiring looks from all. He’s the debonair guy that all men want to be and all women want to be with, and he’s played by a man known best for his dancing, not acting skills.
In Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, the British character Doctor Julian Bashir would play out a James Bond style fantasy in the holosuite where he donned a tuxedo and jetted around the world, bedding glamourous but dutifully submissive women while beating the evil genius and saving the world. When a friend entered, mid-game, Julian was furious at his private fantasy being discovered. Michael Flatley is, to my eyes, actively sharing his with the world. Most middle-aged men with the means seem to treat themselves to a motorbike or spend their weekends playing airsoft as a way to channel their mid-life crisis. Flatley has shelled out his own hard cash flying cast and crew to Barbados so he can live out his wish to be Bond.
The laughter that erupted around the cinema when the words ‘A Michael Flatley film’ appeared on screen make the problem clear: it’s a question of credibility and gaining the right to be taken seriously.
The James Bond franchise has earned the privilege to treat itself as sincerely or as silly as it likes through a track record of mostly enjoyable, entertaining films populated with talented actors. With the notable exception of George Lazenby, those who have played Bond weren’t random civilians picked randomly from a building site and handed a licence to kill. They worked their way towards the role and earned that right not just to say the famous line but to be believed when speaking it. Sean Connery, Timothy Dalton and Daniel Craig all had the acting chops and experience. Roger Moore was The Saint while Pierce Brosnan played a similar role in Remington Steele. Lazenby was the only blagger with virtually no experience and it’s no coincidence he only lasted one movie. Even the potential Bonds through the ages all have CVs that show they’ve got what it takes, whether it’s Tom Hiddleston in The Night Manager, Idris Elba in Luthor or Clive Owen in Croupier.
Michael Flatley is a fantastic dancer who’s been phenomenally successful in that field. But the ability to create and master a discipline in a very specific craft does not necessarily translate to another, no matter how wealthy you are. David Blaine is a master illusionist but is unlikely to transition into a successful stand-up comedy career. Although he does amuse Londoners who like to throw eggs at him when he’s trapped inside a plastic box.
Similarly, actors who write and direct their own projects have typically spent years getting on top of the craft in front of the camera before finally stepping behind it. No one begrudges Affleck or Clooney sitting in the director’s chair whilst also being number one on the call sheet because they’ve earned it. Flatley taking on writing, directing and acting duties feels akin to Alan Partridge’s ‘Swallow’ finally getting made, where you know that Alan would give himself the main role and call all the shots. Even Partridge knew to confine his Bond fantasy to creeping around his house pretending his fingers were a gun when he thought the builders weren’t looking. Flatley’s is in the cinema right now.
Some positives.
Making a film and getting it distributed is an achievement in itself and one to congratulate the filmmakers on. This production provided employment for a lot of cast and crew in London, Ireland and the Bahamas. Despite a lot of obvious stock footage there are some decent original aerial shots and clearly one of the camera crew had a lot of fun shooting B-roll. Patrick Bergin is a fine actor and appears in London scenes as a shadowy, string-pulling figure. Ian Beattie does his best with the material which involves a lot of anxiously standing at the bar with a drink in his hand. Some single-take shots are ambitious and do a great job of making a single location feel grander.
But even with an obviously healthy budget, the film is badly made. With no real director at the helm, actors pause and meander through scenes, seemingly unsure what to do. Shots constantly buzz out of focus. Every scene feels like it needs trimming to bring a sense of pace yet many are stuffed with constant B roll and landscape shots that do nothing but add to a camera operator’s reel. Many scenes don’t get a proper ending unless it’s Flatley’s attempts at brooding, with most final shots containing the few seconds the editor usually lops out before the word “cut” is called. Despite the beautiful backdrops nearly every dialogue shot is framed as a tight close up, especially – you guessed it – Flatley’s, which usually see him straining the buttons of his tuxedo or gurning a Blue Steel look beneath a jauntily angled Fedora.
Speaking of his hats, there’s even a scene where he breaks tradition and wears something akin to golfing cap which he then swaps for a Fedora handed to him by a passing underling. This moment brought the house down at the screening.
The plot feels like it was drawn up by a focus group of ten-year-olds discussing what make-belief game they’d like to play. Every line Flatley utters is delivered with U.S. soap opera gravitas in a monotone drawl whether he’s threatening the bad guy or ordering a drink. For a supposed thriller, even the action is limited to Flatley beating a man to death with a couple of punches, then later an entirely off-camera fight, complete with ‘doof’ sounds that’s followed by him re-entering the scene comically wiping the blood off his hands. The entire film is like an extended Ben Stiller Oscars skit or a feature-length Family Guy cutaway.
It will spawn drinking games.
The supporting cast try hard but veer between wooden and terrible. The villain is played by Eric Roberts, an actor so discerning that his name is synonymous with what looks like every Kickstarter campaign going so long as first-time filmmakers commit to his day rate for the few hours they have him. He chews his way through his scenes, sometimes more than just metaphorically, with his loose dentures adding an unintentional whistle to every line like Herbert from Family Guy. It makes dialogue like “I build schools and hospitals” involuntarily hilarious.
The plot itself is a rambling, incoherent mess about arms dealers and a formula that can either make people superhuman or commit mass genocide. At no point does this become the race against time to save the world that it would in the hands of Bond or Mission Impossible. Characters spend chunks of scenes staring blankly at each other. The purpose of every scene is to either feature Flatley living his dream of being the hero or have characters talk about how great and dangerous he is.
With no one on set willing to tell the guy paying for everything when something is a bad idea, Flatley shoehorns in a completely pointless scene of him shaving whilst topless, the entire reason for which is to show the world he still has abs I can only assume. He then squeezes himself into ill-fitting tuxes that would have flattered, while Eric Roberts is given shirts and suits several sizes too big. Was he, perhaps a late replacement for someone else? Meanwhile, the women in the cast are given deliberately revealing attire that fit with their character breakdowns of what appears to be “objects there to swoon over men decades older than them”. Even if this was filmed before #metoo, the glaring disparity in ages between the men and their love interests is unsettling.
Making a film is a long process that requires a lot of talented people. From pre-production all the way to release there were multiple opportunities for someone involved with this project to stop for a moment and just be honest with Flatley that this was a bad idea.
But a paying vanity project is still a paying job where all involved grimly press on, hoping the next project will be more fulfilling and knowing at least this month’s rent is covered. I can only assume that Flatley didn’t solely fund this and other investors have finally secured this release a mere four years after its premiere in order to recoup their spend. Based on tonight’s viewing I suspect they may actually succeed once word of mouth spreads and this becomes a cult film, with people flocking to screenings much like audiences still do for The Room, where they can laugh along and quote their favourite lines.
The alternative reason for this release is that Flatley actually thinks that Blackbird is what cinema has been waiting for. That said, based on the hysterics from last night’s audience, I fully recommend you go see this film in a packed cinema for a night of laughter you’ll never forget.
As for a star rating? One star, five stars. Both work. The film is in cinemas for you to find out yourself…
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