Guy Ritchie’s inevitable graduation from London to Hollywood has had its moments – the rambunctious zip of the first Sherlock Holmes, the stylish homoeroticism of The Man from UNCLE – but it soon felt as if the once electrifying film-maker had been swallowed up by the system. A middling Sherlock sequel, a pointless King Arthur non-starter and a soulless Aladdin remake seemed like enough to push not just fans away but Ritchie himself. He’s since found a happier medium, making films for a broad, commercial audience with easily marketable stars yet on, what seem like, his own terms, wrestling some control back from the money men.
He’s barely stopped ever since, with five films made over five years and two more slotted into the next, and there is an expectedly solid, workmanlike quality to his recent work, never enough for a four-star rating but never risking a two. His latest, the annoyingly titled The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, is another adequate three-star entry, a little better than his breezy spy caper Operation Fortune: Ruse de Guerre and a little less effective than his swaggering revenge thriller Wrath of Man (both three stars, natch).
