ROCKnROLLA

EVERYONE'S so cruel to Guy Ritchie these days. It is certainly true to say that his last two projects - the chaotic Swept Awayand the gob-smackingly pretentious Revolver- were as bad as any films ever made. Yes, his colourful marriage to that middle-aged fitness instructor gets in the way of us taking him seriously.

Still, we should remember that, at the turn of the last decade, with Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrelsand Snatch, Ritchie delivered two amusing, undemanding and very influential exercises in post- Sweeneyaggro. Okay, so his influence on British cinema may have been entirely malign ("Throw the shooters in the van, you slag!") but Ritchie has earned a little stool in one corner of the cinematic pantheon.

RocknRollajust about qualifies as a return to early form. Starring an impressive line-up of charismatic actors, the film details the bloody circumstances surrounding a dodgy deal between Tom Wilkinson's old-school crime boss and Karel Roden's disreputable Russian oligarch. After instructing Wilkinson to lean on certain council officials who have the power to authorise a proposed property deal, Roden offers his new partner temporary custody of a supposedly lucky painting (the front of which is never shown). When the picture goes missing, a predictable amount of violent chaos descends on London.

Presented as the first part of a proposed trilogy (we'll be the judge of that) RocknRollalooks towards John Mackenzie's great The Long Good Fridayas comments on the current state of London's black economy. Whereas that 1980 film prefigured the transformation of London's docklands under Thatcher, Ritchie's messier entertainment addresses the arrival of Russian money into the capital. It's no accident that Roden's character appears to own a football team.

This is all very ambitious, but the film works best as a class of seedy vaudeville show in which criminals compete to seem the most profane and colourful. Wilkinson, virtually unrecognisable beneath male- pattern baldness and heavy glasses, is deliciously unscrupulous, and Toby Kebbell, recently Rob Gretton in Control, makes something poignant of the hoodlum's son, a strung-out rock star.

The story is overcomplicated and unresolved. The ponderous soliloquies may offer unwelcome reminders of Revolver. But there is enough vulgar style on display here for us to hope cautiously that the trilogy reaches completion. After all, less welcome beasts than Guy Ritchie lurk in the cinematic shadows.