Swirling in the vortex of another male sophomore production, Revolver encapsulates – or at least tries to – sentimental verve. In that, the bloodshed and outlandish machismo actually serves a purpose beyond scintillating teenage boys.

Masterfully, Mr. Ritchie does not reveal his hand until the closing credits. He is indeed attempting to ‘con’ his audience amidst the flying bullets and standard kill sequences between bad guys, grafters, and Cockney. Admittedly, I was fooled for more than half of the film.

Typical stock characters fit into their suits, and plot progression seemed banal. There is intrigue in its wrinkles, however, enough to keep an active mind occupied above the clichéd braggadocio and misconceived alpha male dominance; after all, if leading a gang which deals in drugs and strippers is the apex of masculinity, then one lacks a sophisticated taste for dominance.

Nevertheless, what would be boring popcorn fare has a lining of genuine artistry. The artistic merit of the meaning of Revolver is loftier than Mr. Ritchie’s previous works, which do not rise higher than the significance of a bar brawl. Here, we have the deception of a brawl, to tell a story about personal demons, and the process of exorcising them.

Is the attempt successful? Pausing to answer, we can contemplate at least the attempt in the medium of a guy flick. That is commendable in itself. However, I feel the abrupt reflex found in the conclusion would have had a softer landing had the pilot angled the plane at a more gentle descending angle, meaning, there was plenty of film time to weave the message in more clearly, while still deceiving the audience as Mr. Ritchie intended. Or perhaps I am merely projecting?

Grade: B