It began, as most things do, in innocence. I didn't have a film in mind to write about today, so I headed over to iPlayer to see what it could offer me. There was the usual crop of popular but predictable Britflicks and subdued romantic dramas, but none of them appealed - none of them ever do. A movie called The Heist, though, starring Christopher Walken, Morgan Freeman and William H Macy? Three top character actors in a movie that proudly proclaimed its membership of my absolute favourite genre? Of course I was going to be all over that - I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
Walken and Freeman are ageing security guards at one of those gallery/museum arrangements you get in every town. They're happy in their work and knowledgeable about what they do - more knowledgeable, we are shown in an early scene, than the younger female museum guides. Viewed as more-or-less loveable eccentrics, they're part of the furniture and receive about as much credit for their knowledge as the average sofa. So far, so interesting; we're clearly watching something aimed at the silver set, but there's nothing wrong with that.
Our heroes' problems begin, however, when a change of management decides to ship some of their favourite items from the collection to Copenhagen. They decide this must be prevented, and to this end, they recruit William H. Macy's ex-army night security man. They do this by blackmailing him with security footage of him undressing nightly in front of the young male statues.
My problems begin, meanwhile, at about the same point, with a dawning, slightly sickening realization that this is a film about older men in love with images of younger women, to the point where they're prepared to risk everything to steal them and take them home for themselves. Leaving aside Macy and his slapstick shenanigans, which are never adequately (or even inadequately) explained, we're expected to sympathise with two elderly men who have an unhealthy obsession with young girls - heck, Walken's character is cheerfully prepared to sacrifice his marriage for the chance to stare at a painting of a frankly rather sad-looking young woman on a beach. How could nobody have realised how incredibly dodgy this is?
The cast do their best with material that consists largely of shonky slapstick, while the visuals are on the shoddier side of adequate. One thing I normally like about films aimed at an older demographic is that they tend to be pretty easy on the eye. The Heist, however, favours function over form - often a good thing in a movie of this particular genre, but here the complete lack of artistry just serves to hammer home the director's singular vision. I wouldn't want to meet him on a dark night without a can of Mace in hand.
***
I hadn't actually been planning on watching Role Models last night, but after the Heist debacle I felt I needed something that was at least aware of its tastelessness. I was rewarded, pretty much, with a cheerful comedy that mixed charming performances with a few belly laughs and a touch of genuine heart. I wouldn't exactly call it a paean to feminism, but I really appreciated watching female characters with real agency, who were smart enough and brave enough not to need the male leads to look after them. Paul Rudd, meanwhile, is becoming a name I'm starting to look out for - his low-key charm seems to add a sprinkle of class to everything he touches.
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