THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.: Blu-ray (Warner Bros. 2015) Warner Home Video
From 1964 to
1968, Robert Vaughn and David McCallum costarred in The Man from U.N.C.L.E.; a rollicking and uber-sophisticated spy
thriller TV series meant to do for the small screen what Ian Fleming’s James
Bond had done for the movies. Formulaic to a fault, but developed by
co-producer, Sam Rolfe to mask most of the obviousness beneath a patina of
swinging sixties mod adventures, The Man from
U.N.C.L.E. was as glamorous and witty as one might expect; perfect entertainment
in a decade shared by The Saint
(1961-68) and The Avengers
(1961-69). With a few lighter moments
factored in, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
proved a delectable nod to this fanciful Cold War cloak and dagger: TV’s
original odd couple, American CIA operative, Napoleon Solo (Vaughn) and his
Soviet KGB counterpart, Illya Kuryakin (David McCallum), begrudgingly managed
by spy wrangler supreme, Alexander Waverly (Leo G. Carroll). Flash forward to
director, Guy Ritchie’s big screen adaptation, also titled The Man from U.N.C.L.E.; so described as a ‘second-rate James Bond/Mission
Impossible adventure. Respectfully, I submit there is a difference; a
tangible and important one, as Ritchie’s movie is neither a cheap or deliberate
impersonation of these two aforementioned film franchises; nor does it try and
hang on to the superficial appeal of being a direct derivative of the TV series
whose name it bears. Ritchie’s flick could have so easily turned into another
Hollywoodized and badly bungled gumbo, a la the big screen mistreatment The Avengers incurred in 1998.
The trick and
the blessing herein is Ritchie is not trying to be a knock-off of any of the aforesaid;
having made two critical executive decisions to ensure his picture can be spun
off into a film franchise of its own. First, Ritchie has chosen to ground his
story in that spectacularly luminous appeal of sixties glam-bam; Mussolini’s
Rome in particular, looking as though a Technicolor snapshot excised from
Federico Fellini’s otherwise B&W La
Dolce Vita (1960); the daring escape sequence that begins the picture in a
monochromatic East Berlin, vaguely reminiscent of the opener from Martin Ritt’s
The Spy Who Came In From The Cold
(1965). There are moments in The Man from
U.N.C.L.E. as brazenly chic and as devilishly audacious as 1969’s The Italian Job and other sequences
that hold a candle to the Connery/Lazenby era of classic Bondian adventures. Second,
Ritchie has kept alive just enough of what made the original series memorable,
while adding a decidedly contemporary slant to both the story and its action
sequences that make it more palpable than mere time capsule. This bodes
extremely well for the storytelling – at least, partly. Fair enough, the
DePalma-esque split-screen editing employed by James Hebert is a tad
heavy-handedly applied; too much conflicting information to take in and digest
within a single frame. And I could have easily done without the discombobulating
handheld camerawork during the downhill race that caps off the show. This left
me unable to settle my gaze on virtually any of the footage without becoming
queasy in the pit of my stomach. But otherwise – this kit is nicely put
together and slickly packaged with some flashy bling along the way.
Henry Cavill
and Armie Hammer step into the fine-leather shoes of their predecessors as the
immaculately groomed and equally as cocky Napoleon and earthy Russian bear colleague,
Illya respectively; doing virtually all their own stunts with the aid of some
meticulously tricked out machinery and a few briefly doubled inserts, deftly
photographed and going for broke by cinematographer, John Mathieson, who is
unafraid to hold his tight shots on Cavill and Hammer to illustrate their
obvious physical assets. Both Cavill and Hammer are in impeccable shape, as
their raucous ‘cute meet’ confrontation inside a cramped public restroom
attests; pummeling one another into the stalls and tearing apart virtually all
the break-away furnishings. Even more rewarding, Cavill and Hammer look the
parts as a cut above the rest for what generally passes as the rugged male
animal on screen these days. It is gratifying to finally see a thriller where
the leading players are impeccably attired and drop-dead handsome; the villain
– uber-bitch, Victoria Vinciguerra (Elizabeth Debicki) – in tandem, is cruel, slinky and oozing erotic
sex appeal, while contemptuous to a fault and worthy of her comeuppances in the
end, and, the leading lady, Gaby Teller (Alicia Vikandercan) is both a
turbo-charged sexpot (hints of the classic Bond girl), but also, a lady,
eschewing the cliché of the damsel in distress and still contributing to this
show.
For the most
part, The Man from U.N.C.L.E is a
high-octane extravagance with a few improbable twists and just enough saucy
dialogue sandwiched in between its showdowns to make it all click as it should.
It’s not high art. Then again, why try to be? A popcorn pleaser, it definitely
is, and easily one of the most stylish made in the last decade; Daniel Craig’s
outings as James Bond included. It helps, Guy Ritchie has left U.N.C.L.E
to its Cold War amusements; looking back on that reconstituted ‘reality’
gleaned from the decade’s TV shows and movies rather than attempting to reinvent
the wheel with a darker, more joyless impression on the actual period taken
from life itself. Ritchie’s verve for mild camp in this mega-budgeted screen
adaptation is perfection itself, invigoratingly apart from the mainstream’s
slavish aim – and, by my thinking, misfire – to bottle the grim verisimilitude
of the actual profession of spying.
Leaving the
poisoned umbrellas and cyanide capsules at home, Ritchie just baits us with
good, clean fun. We are never meant to take any of this seriously. Mission
accomplished. No one could accuse The
Man from U.N.C.L.E. for being a hard-boiled Cold War thriller. Instead, it’s
a dog and pony show about the mod generation; sleek and spiritedly attired in
all the frothy accoutrements of sixties ‘feel good.’ At times, Ritchie seems to
be channeling his inspirations from both 1963’s The Pink Panther and James Bond. Miraculously, it is never a strain
to suggest these two could operate side by side and, even more remarkably, as
equals; Hammer’s expressionless angry young man chronically referring to Cavill’s
dapper Dan as ‘cowboy’; Solo returning
the favor by repeatedly suggesting Illya’s brutish KGB knows absolutely nothing
of subtlety, class or decorum – in short, feeding into the time-honored movie cliché
of the sexless/joyless and charm-free Russian thug muscle. There is a reason
why hyperbole – done right – still works; the screenplay co-authored by Ritchie
and Lionel Wigram instinctually knowing which chestnuts to pluck and ply to
their craft.
So easily, it
could have gone the other way. Indeed, producer, John Davis had optioned the
film rights to the sixties franchise all the way back in 1993; setting up a
development deal with Warner Bros. and series producer, Norman Felton. But the
process by which Davis and the studio would both be satisfied was hard won,
going through fourteen drafts of the screenplay over the next twenty years.
After the success of Pulp Fiction
(1994) it looked as though Quentin Tarantino might write and direct this
adaptation. Mercifully, this never happened. I can only shudder to think of the
blood-soaked and foul-mouthed adaptation that might have materialized had
Tarantino signed on. Instead, other names floated in an out of the rumor mill;
directors, Matthew Vaughn and David Dobkin; then, Steven Soderbergh, cribbing
from a screenplay by Scott Z. Burns. Warner Bros. initially fought to keep the
production budget hovering around $60 million; the final cost to produce The Man from U.N.C.L.E. exceeding it by
$15 million. Alas, casting the picture equally proved a nightmare.
At one point,
Gaby was to have been played by Emily Blunt – who would have been truly
marvelous in the role. But Elizabeth Debicki’s femme fatale was first offered
to Rose Byrne, then Charlize Theron, neither actress very much interested in the
part. Thankfully, the original idea to cast George Clooney as Napoleon Solo
fizzled after Clooney informed the studio he had a bad back and would not be
able to fulfill the project’s arduous stunt work. In hindsight, equally a
blessing was Tom Cruise’s prior commitments on Mission Impossible 3, preventing him from partaking in this
exercise. In the 80’s, Cruise’s star power was Teflon-coated. Arguably, it has
never recovered from rumors of inadequacy surrounding his three failed
marriages, his charisma as token beefcake at the box office taking a hit and
then steadily departing, along with his inevitable youth an afterthought in the
rearview. Of the myriad of other choices
bandied about for Napoleon Solo, I can think of only a handful that might have
done the part justice: Ewan McGregor, Clive Owen, Jon Hamm and Henry Cavill
among them.
At age 32, the
six foot Cavill is in a highly enviable bargaining position in Hollywood; with
a sparkling set of blue eyes, dimpled chin, thick mane of jet-black hair and
sufficiently muscular to boot; his killer smile, ruggedly masculine either
stubbly or clean-shaven, Cavill emerges in The
Man from U.N.C.L.E. as the sort of leading man Hollywood has not fostered
since the male beauties of the early 40’s; Robert Taylor, Cary Grant or Clark
Gable, with a dash of Steve McQueen and Steve Reeves thrown in; having broken
through to international acclaim, though alas, mostly in predictably mindless
actioners and superhero franchises (with more to follow – gag!). Cavill gets
more of an opportunity to ‘act’ in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. – perhaps,
because Guy Ritchie knows he has bought more than just a pretty face and toned
body with this package; Ritchie and costumer, Joanna Johnson remaining differently
above it all in resisting the urge to give in to the transparency of beefcake
as the Bond franchise has increasingly done with the arrival of Daniel Craig. Cavill’s
star power is not in his biceps, though it helps his eye-candy status immensely.
But he projects an air of austere toughness – nee, ice-watered cruelty, married
to a titanic bravado that, on anyone else, would be damn near insufferable, but
on him ranks as the height of put-together male studliness. Cavill can also
pull off a few lighter bits of comedy with all the panache of Roger Moore. Like
Cary Grant, Cavill is not afraid to periodically poke fun at this egocentric
image with a wink and a nudge; giving us his interpretation of the cream of the
jest before the audience can even guess at it. As such, we laugh with his
Napoleon Solo – rather than at him. Here is a man who loves only one thing more
than the good life – himself. Aside: it
will be interesting to see how Cavill navigates the course to evolve as an
actor of merit.
From the
outset, Armie Hammer was cast to play Illya; Hammer’s paternal
great-grandmother, Russian-born actress and singer, Olga Vadimovna Vadina. Hammer’s been less exposed to the elixir of
stardom than Cavill and, as such, is not yet considered leading man material.
That may change for the actor after this movie as he matches his co-star’s
impertinence and arrogance blow for blow and barb for barb; pulling both off
with a faux Russian accent. The knee-jerk reaction to this Cold War détente has
made these two adversaries uncomfortable partners on a singular mission; Guy Ritchie
perhaps trying a little too heavy-handedly, especially in the early scenes, to
turn out Hammer’s KGB as the sort of stereotypical assassin a la Richard Kiel’s
superhuman Jaws from The Spy Who Loved
Me (1977). There is even a scene where Hammer’s Illya manages to rip off
the trunk hatch of Gaby and Solo’s getaway car; flinging what would otherwise
be a fairly heavy hunk of metal into the air as though it were a plastic
Frisbee. Thankfully, the rest of the movie does not play as fast and loose with
the big bad Ruskie; Hammer stepping up to the plate, and playing some
unexpected bits of comedy with great restraint and an instinct for knowing
exactly where the emphasis ought to be – either on the comedy or the tenderness.
As example: the scene where Illya repeated falls for Gaby’s drunken seductions,
his face slapped every time he anticipates a kiss. Given Illya’s predilection
toward violence exhibited earlier – and without even an ounce of provocation – we
perhaps expect Illya now to get tough with Gaby, or, at the very least, fling
her like a rag doll onto the bed, leading directly into a predictably hot and
heavy love scene. Unusually, the script disappoints on this score – Gaby’s
slaps somewhat emasculating instead; the subsequent tussle between Gaby and
Illya ending with Gaby passed out on the floor after having consumed far too
much alcohol; Illya, gingerly depositing her unconscious body on the bed with
all the doting regard of a loyal brother.
After a rather
frenetic main title sequence with far too much backstory unravelling before our
eyes to keep the names above or below the titles in focus, our story opens in
1963. We meet professional thief cum CIA agent, Napoleon Solo, ordered by his
superior, the curmudgeonly Sanders (Jared Harris) to get Gaby Teller out from
behind the Iron Curtain. Gaby is the daughter of nuclear physicist, Udo Teller
(Christian Berkel); a defector, presently working for the Nazis, but turned
inside collaborator for the U.S. at the end of WWII. Solo is the epitome of
masculine chic; put together like a GQ centerfold with all the trappings of
today’s enterprising metrosexual and the unbearable handsomeness to sell it to
virtually any woman he chooses to seduce. Alas, he lacks an understanding heart
– replaced herein by a coolly sarcasm and enterprising desire to loosen the
federal government’s yolk around his neck. He will do their bidding so long as
there is a little carrot attached for him. But Solo bites off more than he can
chew when Gaby turns out to be a fairly aggressive, street-savvy and sinfully
sexy no nonsense gal. She can definitely handle herself in a tight situation.
Almost immediately, Solo puts her into one; a daring escape through the narrow
streets of East Berlin, pursued by Russian agent, Illya Kuryakin, who narrowly
manages to steal Gaby back. This one-upmanship will become a running gag
throughout The Man from U.N.C.L.E.;
Ritchie tugging on the old ‘mine’s bigger
than yours is’ male chest-thumping while illustrating the strengths
and weaknesses each man possesses, thus setting up how their latter day détente
will prove a match made in spy heaven…or some such place.
Returning to
the relative safety of his home base, Solo is put in an unlikely position by
Saunders; forced to work with Illya to unearth the whereabouts of a nuclear
bomb. The clock is ticking – literally, as Gaby’s uncle, Rudi (Sylvester Groth)
may hold the key. And so, after placating Gaby with a trend-setting wardrobe to
soften the blow, Solo lays it on the line for her. She will fake a surprise
engagement to Illya for Rudi’s benefit; the couple arriving separately from
Solo in Rome and Solo posing as an antiquities dealer; the trio attending a ‘by invitation only’ Formula-1 race,
hosted by shipping magnets, Alexander (Luca Calvani) and Victoria Vinciguerra;
a wealthy couple rumored to be Nazi sympathizers. Unbeknownst to anyone, the
jetsetters are holding Udo prisoner until he completes their doomsday device.
Up to his old heist tricks, Solo effortlessly swipes his invitation from British
MI6 commander, Waverly (Hugh Grant); then, proceeds to lighten several guests,
including Victoria, of their priceless jewelry. She is moderately impressed by
his stealth but doesn’t let her obvious attraction to Solo muddle her thinking.
In the meantime, Alexander flirts with Gaby after she illustrates a deft
ability to tune up his racing car at a moment’s glance.
Told by Solo
they will be tested in their cover, Illya allows two seemingly amateurish
street hustlers to swipe his most prized possession: his father’s watch.
However, back at their hotel suite, Illya develops the radiation-sensitive film
he shot while at the races. Its ‘hot’ images prove unequivocally the
Vinciguerras are up to something. Armed with this evidence, Solo and Illya begrudgingly
conspire to break into the Vinciguerra shipyards under the cover of night,
hoping to discover the bomb on site. Alas, the laboratories have been relocated.
Only traces of uranium are found on the premises. Regrettably, Solo
inadvertently sets off the company alarm, forcing him and Illya to launch into
a daring escape by breaking a window on the second floor and blindly diving out
it. Regrettably, both men fall short of the getaway boat docked outside; making
their way to the moored speeder and eventually pulling away as a small army of
security guards open fire on them. Illya is too late to make the most of their departure;
the locks automatically sealed, creating a sort of giant bathtub of water. In
narrowly averting an oncoming boat, Solo is thrown into the water, resurfacing
unnoticed and managing to swim to shore. Patiently, he waits until Illya has
all but exhausted his possibilities of escape, before casually driving a truck
off the pier. It lands flat on the security guard’s boat, sinking it to the
bottom of the water. Diving into the murky waters after Illya, who has been
knocked unconscious by the blast, Solo manages to spare his life.
Although
Victoria suspects Solo and Illya of this botched break-in, the pair manages to
slip past her henchmen waiting for them at the hotel and return to their
respective suites unnoticed. To further cover up their activities, Solo seduces
Victoria into bed. It is an almost perfect covert operation, except the next
afternoon, Udo unexpectedly betrays Illya to Rudi and Alexander. Unaware their
cover has been blown Solo walks into a trap; sedated and taken hostage by
Victoria. Now, he awakens bound to a homemade electric chair in an experimental
lab, Victoria allowing Rudi to conduct his wartime Nazi medical experiments on
him. Aside: it has become something of ‘the
fashion’ for every actioner made in the last twenty years to produce a
fanny-twitching sequence in which our hero’s threshold for pain is tested. I
have grown a little weary of these ‘torture’ scenes. By now, they are old hat
at best, and hackneyed endeavors at their worst, primitively designed to
humanize men of action who, by their very definition, ought to be able to take
it on the chin, nose, balls and any other body parts one should so choose to
brutalize with relish, yet still walk away relatively unharmed and – on occasion
– not even terribly bruised; apart from one’s own vanity. And so, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. has Cavill’s
put-together spy-hunk put through the ringer; strapped into this electrocution
device, with Rudi giving us a big build-up to an anticipated torture sequence
never to fully materialize. The Man from
U.N.C.L.E. was released prior to the latest Bond feature, Spectre, sporting a remarkably similar
torture sequence. Arguably, Daniel Craig’s Bond set the template for such
sequences with his ball-busting vignette in Casino
Royale (2006).
Even more predictably,
the torture device in The Man from
U.N.C.L.E. is turned on Rudi to give him a taste of his own medicine after
Illya infiltrates the secret hideaway by tracking Solo with a Russian-made
homer hidden in his shoe. Herein, Guy Ritchie is, I think, going for the sort
of sophomoric humor Tarantino invoked in Pulp
Fiction; the scene where John Travolta’s Vincent Vega accidentally discharges
his gun in the face of his unsuspecting recent captive, Marvin (Phil LaMarr)
immediately coming to mind. In The Man
from U.N.C.L.E. we get the opportunity to witness the electric chair’s
grotesque malfunction. It shorts out and literally incinerates Rudi while Solo
and Illya stand only a few feet away debating the finer points of pumping this
known Nazi war criminal for vital information; both apparently oblivious to the
fact Rudi has already been ignited in a hellish fireball, thus rendering their
debate moot. In the meantime, Victoria takes Gaby hostage, reuniting her with Udo
on her private island. Udo is, in fact, a double agent, working for the
British. Father and daughter share a brief reunion, Gaby slipping the wrong
lens into the bomb’s tracking system; Victoria recognizing the ruse (as both
Udo and Gaby are double agents), and thereafter hurrying Gaby off in a Jeep
towards the mainland; then, assassinating Udo once he has corrected the planned
sabotage of the warhead.
Solo and Illya
are confronted by Waverly, who reveals himself to be a high-ranking MI6
operative. Explaining how Gaby is really working for him, Waverly is given
permission by their respective governments to use Solo and Illya to invade the
Vinciguerra’s island retreat, along with a small unit of Royal Marines. Alexander
takes Gaby by force on a daring escape along with the fake warhead. Illya – on
motorcycle – and Solo, driving a supped up dune buggy, make chase across craggy
and heavily forested terrain; their vehicles eventually colliding with and overturning
Alexander’s getaway vehicle. Realizing the tracking device in the decoy can be
reprogrammed to hone in on the actual bomb; Solo keeps Victoria on the
telephone just long enough for the Marines to lock onto the coordinates of her
innocuous-looking fishing trawler; the impact of the blast not enough to set
off the real nuclear bomb, but ultimately killing Victoria in the process.
Their mission
at an end, Illya’s superiors instruct him to show no mercy toward the
‘American’. With the threat of exile to Siberia looming overhead, Illya arrives
at Solo’s suite, intent on killing him to obtain Udo’s research. However, having already anticipated the
purpose for his visit, Solo has planned ahead and is prepared to kill Illya
instead – but only, if necessary; first brokering his favor by restoring to him
his father’s watch, recovered by Solo during the invasion of Victoria’s island
retreat. To satisfy both their
government’s interests, thus allowing them to remain ‘friends’, Solo and Illya
agree to destroy Udo’s research. A short while later, the men, along with Gaby,
toast an end to their mission with champagne. Too bad, Waverly has other ideas;
intruding upon the trio to inform them of another international brouhaha in
Istanbul for which both the American and Soviet governments have authorized him
the use of their top agents to get the job done. The irony, that east meets
west is not over yet, causes Solo, Illya and Gaby to scowl; each powerless to
refuse this new order.
With its’
superb buddy/buddy chemistry married to some straight-laced genre shtick and
brisk campiness, The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
stays mostly on course as the coolest customer in town; the quintessence of
that bright and breezy, all-fizz, though some cola, summer blockbuster teeming
with sun-drenched vistas and elegantly attired extras. Mixing up the conventions
of the spy thriller, the actioner and the pseudo-romantic comedy, the picture
is stitched together with Guy Ritchie’s expertise for solidly crafted matinee
crowd-pleasing/escapist entertainment; exactly the sort of medicine to leave an
admirably clean aftertaste that countermands our sour generation’s dearth of
dark and depressing adventure yarns. I thoroughly enjoyed the picture for what
it is – mindless fluff – rather than for what it ostensibly is aspiring to be;
a valiant competitor to either the Bond or Mission
Impossible franchises. There’s no competition here. Ritchie’s aim to entertain
is solid and his principles are exactly what the doctor ordered. The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is sleek, sophisticated,
playfully obtuse and deliciously amusing. Let’s all hope this one gets a
sequel.
Warner Home
Video’s Blu-ray is predictably impressive, preserving veteran British
cinematographer, John Mathieson digital imagery to a tee, deliberately invoking
blown-out contrast levels and an ever so slight, though deliberate teal bias
for this rich and invigorating palette. The
Man from U.N.C.L.E. veers in its visual extremes, from foreboding and
almost monochromatic East Berlin to impossibly luxuriating Mediterranean
lushness. This 1080p image is dappled in
vibrant watercolor shades reproduced with appetizing brilliance. Contrast is
superb, with zero black crush. Grain is practically nonexistent – not surprising,
considering the whole production was shot using a variety of grain-concealing
digital cameras; Arri Alexa Plus, and several Canon models, plus a GoPro. Warner
has infused this disc with an impressive Dolby Atmos 7.1 mix; sonically
saturating the acoustic nerve with a complimentary environment to the visuals
provided herein. Dialogue is always
crisp; effects during the more bombastic fight sequences really giving your
speakers a workout. Great stuff. Extras amount to an impressively amassed
series of junkets produced during filming; all of them presented in full 1080p,
covering the creation of the movie, a look inside its’ character development,
and celebrating the style of the sixties. Again, I really enjoyed this film: ditto
for this disc – a nicely packed and intelligently produced offering from WB
just before the holiday rush. Bottom line:
The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is a solid ‘stocking
stuffer’ for the armchair action guy in your family. Highly recommended.
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
3.5
VIDEO/AUDIO
4.5
EXTRAS
4
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