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Hot British bad boys certainly have (maybe not-so-niche) appeal. Even I was curious what female director Lone Scherfig would bring to The Riot Club, which Laura Wade adapted from her own male-centric play, Posh. And after the opening scene, which dives head-first into big breasts and unrepentant Renaissance debauchery through a wily sense of humour, I buckled up for a wild ride.
Too bad the film never really went there. Despite this early filmic treatment and Wolf of Wall Street-esque promise, the film doesn’t amount to much more than The Skulls at Oxford. The play’s spatial limitation start to feel unnecessarily confined for the big screen during the climax (especially in the massive Princess of Whales Theatre, which signalled a certain importance for a press-only screening). But alas, it was all ultimately as disposable as the women the male characters talk about but rarely engage. To re-quote the them, I suppose there are films for today, and films for tomorrow. This was just a film for today.
Sincerely,
Christopher
