Looking at 44 Inch Chest from the outside it seems to be a film with a lot to offer and the right cast to offer it. Look at the cast: Ray Winstone, Ian McShane, Tom Wilkinson, John Hurt.Come on, this thing has to be good, but what 44 Inch Chest represents is a reason why we can not bank on the names on the poster or the cover. What you get is a hodge podge mixture of Glengarry Glen-Ross and Reservoir Dogs that is the cinematic equivalent to chocolate and ketchup mixed together.The plot follows Colin (Winstone) who is a blubbering mess, going over the edge after his wife tells him that it's over. His four friends, in an attempt to save their friend, decide to kidnap Colin's wife's lover and allow Colin to get his revenge and kill him. The film is basically set in a run down tenement with the characters bantering in guy speak while Colin contemplates how he's going finish the evening.
This is a film with great acting and great actors. The problem is that the story is weak, no matter how well you act it out. When you go into 44 Inch Chest you expect a great ensemble cast with some very memorable moments between some of the greatest British actors of our time and you do get that when they're allowed to interact on screen and it's great, particularly the exchanges between McShane's homosexual character and Hurt's homophobic old man. The films problems, just like it's sister film Sexy Beast, occur in that third act. You see, we're privy to the Winstone character sniveling through most of the film at this point and when he's left alone in the room with the "Loverboy" it further perpetuates the pathetic existence that Colin has fallen to in his break up. Hey! We get it! Winstone, though a great actor, gets way too much screen time with this performance. Sure, I know he's upset, but a normal person would at least make some effort to bullshit me into believing that they are a little okay. Colin's constant crying is like being beaten with a hammer by the third act and we start to not care.
I have to compare this film with Glen Garry Glen Ross. It's a group of great actors in close quarters spilling their guts on the screen. The big difference is that with the earlier film, by the end, I actually gave a damn about Jack Lemmon desperately trying to hold onto his job. I thought that Al Pacino should have won the Caddy. By the end of 44 Inch Chest I just want Winstone to either shoot the bastard or go home. I was tired with the character. That's the sad part about this film. There was so much potential and it worked, but crumbled under a script that tried to go a little too far. Death by excess.
