Article: Thank You Richie Adamson – Rewatching TwentyFourSeven

By Leslie Byron Pitt

The man who introduced me to Shane Meadows, Richie, is no longer with us. Around the time I started to consider writing this piece, Tyson Fury had recently stopped Dillon Whyte to retain his heavyweight boxing titles. I found myself with a profound desire to rewatch Shane Meadows' 90s tragicomedy TwentyFourSeven. Of all the films on boxing that one can seek in the hundred-plus years of cinema, this little indie that could wormed its way back into my consciousness. In turn, I found my thoughts centring on my old friend from Somerset. A man whose passion for media influenced me more than I even dare to think. We had first met in my hometown of High Wycombe. We were both working at the local cinema and bonded over the sitcom Spaced and our love of Hip-Hop. I started this piece before taking a long break from it. As the 4th anniversary of Ritchie’s death loomed overhead, I found myself back at my computer.

At college, while writing film reviews, I cribbed quotes from his rants and received high marks. He introduced me to pulp movies like The Way of the Gun (2000) and Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001). I would argue about the virtues of Paul Thomas Anderson. Richie despised what he considered the pretensions of filmmakers like Anderson. He was more into the cult comedy stylings of films like Men at Work (1990) and The Adventures of Ford Fairlane (1990). Of those two titles, I preferred the latter over the former. But our friendship lay in other shared passions. Watching and yapping about the likes of Shane Meadows, Takeshi Kitano, and (early) Kevin Smith. This became our middle ground.

Photo by Charlie Pitt

Richie passed away in October 2021. He left us not even a week after my wife and I lost our second child, Ava. Two weeks before he passed, I was sitting on a patio with him, cackling over Warner Bros leaving one of the Nun characters from Ken Russell’s The Devils in the background of Space Jam 2’s medley of studio stars. Richie had moved back to Somerset but periodically returned to visit the few friends he still knew back in Buckinghamshire. At this time, we hadn’t seen each other since my wedding in 2018. He wasn’t one for social media. So, I spent some time informing him of what he missed. He was gutted at the news that my wife and I had lost our first child, Samuel, in 2020. But he was pleased to hear about Ava. Little did we know that tragedy would strike again. The one-two punch of these losses has made October a difficult month to process. A moment of compounded grief.

A bachelor for as long as I knew him, he always seemed pleased when his friends got into relationships. He would bombard my wife with GTA text updates.  She called him a true gent. A few people did. Maybe it was his Army training. He was good at hiding his cynicism. When I heard the news, I looked back at our group wedding photos. I couldn’t see him. He may have hidden in the crowd. He wasn’t too fond of pictures. I sense, Dear Reader, you are seeing a pattern.

While he was not one for stroking his ego on social media, Richie was a (not-so-quiet) influencer in getting others interested in stuff. Opinionated to the point of annoyance, Richie was best when he found something you liked, wandered down his memory palace, and found something similar he could recommend. He was a hype man for recreation. Shane Meadows was a big one for him. We headed to the cinema for the enjoyable Kitchen Sink Western, Once Upon a Time in the Midlands (2002), but Richie was big on Meadows' early features. “Oh, Dude,” he’d exclaim in his West Country accent, “you’ve got to check out A Room for Romeo Brass!” I picked up the Shane Meadows DVD box set at a time when doing so would cost most of your weekly cinema income. He wasn’t wrong, though. It’s a fine box set. One I still own. And it includes TwentyFourSeven.

Set in an unnamed Nottinghamshire town, TwentyFourSeven centres on Alan Darcy (a monumental Bob Hopkins). A hardworking and passionate man who has fallen on hard times after the reign of Thatcher. Fed up with the rival juvenile gangs who loiter around the area with little to do other than eat chips and fight each other, Darcy decides to unite the youths of the town by building a boxing club. Darcy holds an unwavering opinion that opening the club will bring crime down and give those who join something to believe in. Animosity slowly shifts to respect, and all signs point to Darcy’s idea being a source of good. However, tension builds when Darcy’s plan to hold a tournament between his crew and another club, and exterior conflicts build around the group.

Meadows is an outstanding economic filmmaker. With the ability to mine profound richness from seemingly very little. A quality like that of Terrance Davis. While Hopkins is the film’s lead performer, TwentyFourSeven has a considerable and varied cast who all play their part in the film’s 90 minutes. All of whom are given enough character to fill out their plot strands. There are familiar faces here as well. Yes, that is Les Battersby from Coronation Street. That certainly is a young James Corden. Every character gives something to the story. Even if they have limited screen time. The film touches on themes of coming of age, drug abuse, domestic violence, homosexuality, generational disconnect, and socioeconomical politics, but does so with an incredibly deft touch. Moments carry weight but never feel heavy-handed. Depth is found in simple, delicate moments. Handprints left on glass tables. A mentor lying at the bedside of a friend who’s had a momentary relapse. A glass being held by a hand shaking with anxious realisation. When the context is removed, these descriptions might sound odd or mundane. But watch how they fit into this narrative. They become moving. This quality has never left Meadows as a director. Even as he moved to larger “small” films such as Dead Man’s Shoes (2004) and This is England (2006). 

TwentyFourSeven’s depth is cleverly wrapped up in a stylish and cine-literate package. The film happily name-checks Rocky (1976), with some of the subplots and themes appearing to be wry nods to the Hollywood crowd-pleaser. The textured monochromatic cinematography owes more than a passing acknowledgement to Raging Bull (1980). Again, TwentyFourSeven liberally borrows and twists themes from Scorsese’s savage biopic. Alan Darcy, much like Jake La Motta, is a passionate lover of the sport of boxing but also a man who is unable to quell the rage that swells inside him. Much like On the Waterfront (1954), quipping La Motta, Darcy could have been a contender; however, having surrendered himself to his aggressive actions, he becomes a bum. The film opens with the unfortunate road where Darcy’s rage takes him.

Part of my love for this film is the counselling aspect that I had also often found in Richie. He didn’t have a volatile nature. There was no aggressive streak that inhabits the mentor figures in Shane Meadows' movies. But the geeky passion Richie had for so much media felt like many of the characters witnessed in the films we watched together. Richie was a guide during my college and university years in a similar way Darcy became to his boxing group. It would be easy to get annoyed at his all-or-nothing opinion on things, but never in his desire to get you invested in the things that also entertained him. Watching TwentyFourSeven again, the key aspect in Darcy is that his enthusiasm was infectious. As was Richie’s. At one point, Richie and I would meet up once a month to watch wrestling pay-per-views and eat wings (or Ribs). Said meet-ups grew rapidly in numbers. Soon, becoming all-night events fuelled by chicken and caffeine. All situated within a rather moderately sized living room. Richie, with his broad grin, would inform everyone which wrestlers we should want to win. He was in his element. 

What’s enjoyable, and ultimately heartbreaking, is Darcy doing what he can to bring back a sense of community to a midland town that feels forgotten by everyone else. Believing wholeheartedly in the nobility of his cause, the wish to be a force for good to groups of boys who are struggling with abandonment, absenteeism, and despair is endearing. Watching the film almost 30 years on, this type of idealism feels so distant, yet still required.  Indeed, watching TwentyFourSeven in the social media era feels strange now. More towns look even more like the film’s unnamed, midland town. While the people these days who inspire young boys now are obnoxious, bigoted loudmouths who seem to exist in our phones like digital ether. Intangible but potent. I was no delinquent, but watching a film where one man tries to rouse a sense of belief in young men, all the while being similarly inspired by a person seemingly doing the same thing, is quite an experience. A melding of fact and fiction. Life and art. Both Richie and Darcy were beacons of motivation. To take what you can from them and use it to bring people together. 

Roger Ebert was dismissive of TwentyFourSeven, with the critic openly admitting from the start of his review that he didn’t understand why Boxing is recommended to young boys in depressed areas. His opening statement puts a distance between himself and the film. While the broad view that boxing gives boys an inner belief is vague as a gesture, TwentyFourSeven highlights that inspiration and community can be gained from unlikely spots. Ebert, who famously claimed that movies are vehicles of empathy, seems to neglect the compassion that TwentyFourSeven has in abundance. Much like the film’s patriarch antagonist, played by former Coronation Street mainstay Bruce Jones, Ebert was unconvinced by Darcy’s plight. It’s a shame not to be convinced by Darcy’s unconventional yet positive intentions. Much of the persuasion lies in the bullish yet sensitive performance from Bob Hoskins. There’s an anxiety that can be seen on his face when he pleads his case. His conviction is the key to the film. And it’s conviction that I still believe with every viewing. This is a man who wishes to give something back. He is devastated when things go awry.

Richie died of heart failure brought on by catching Covid-19. He detailed that he didn’t wish to have a funeral. His parents stated that all he asked for was for his friends to remember him and the time shared together. My memories of Richie were watching cult movies, wrestling events, playing video games, and eating wings. Nothing too out of the ordinary. But there was another layer. To share each other’s passions. No matter how trivial. To find common ground and connection, despite it being unconventional. I’ve never been too sure on how to do this right. To honour such a particular kind of friend. Pictures weren’t forthcoming. But the passion of his opinions was strongly remembered. For me, his recommendations certainly were. There are more than a few films that remind me of Richie. Possibly too many. I thought maybe writing about one would be the right thing. There’s a strong chance he would disagree. But I’d still write it. Pass on the passion. Like Richie did with me. I feel it’s best to leave this piece with two lines in the journal in which Darcy records his thoughts throughout the film.

“To give is the most splendid feeling. Letting go of your own for the pleasure of another.”

Thank You, Richard Adamson.

Article: Up All Night

 

"Kids, your grandma always used to say to me, "Nothing good happens after 2:00 a.m.," and she was right. When 2:00 a.m. rolls around, just go home and go to sleep" – Ted Mosby, How I Met Your Mother 

After spending a lot of my younger life in office jobs and still being in one now, the idea of living for the weekend is a common and desirable aim. Whatever you do in your glass and concrete cage it matters little when the clock hits quitting time. It’s your time to spend. It’s precious. This is clearly obvious for Paul (Griffin Dunne), a word processor and protagonist of Martin Scorsese’s spiraling midnight farce After Hours. The opening moments are so wryly put together. Paul’s wandering eye gaze over the seemingly never-ending piles of paper being carried around to nowhere. His colleague: Lloyd is a new blood trainee who bores him with his mundane chatter about not wanting to be stuck in this humdrum world forever. We all know the type. Especially when you work in an office in your mid-twenties.  It’s clear Paul wants to break free from the shackles of the working day. Very soon the gates that keep him trapped will open and he’ll get his chance of freedom. The trouble is after tonight will he really want it? 

After Hours is usually the first film of the various movies I think of when I hear the overly recycled argument that “Marty only makes gangster films”. Such is the quarrel that I’ve heard for nearly 20 years. After Hours is as old as me, so god knows how long others have had to listen to such lazy claims. Paul this lonely, bored office drone, meets a slightly kooky, bohemian girl, Marcy (Roseanna Arquette) in a diner after work. They bond over the book he’s reading. She’s a little off, but not as much as the weird cashier who they both laugh at. Paul is clearly looking to spice up his life with a lady. Forget about his job for a bit. Looking for an escape from the monotony, it seems there might be something between the two of them. She invites him back to her place in Soho. She lives with a punk artist who makes paperweights. He could have one. Although he’s sure that’s not what she’s inviting him for. That said. What’s the worst that could happen?

In revisiting After Hours, I couldn’t help but snicker at the glee the film has in hiding everything it can from Paul who hasn’t got the facilities for the Soho life. He is not supposed to be there. He does not fit in and it shows in the conversations, the glances. The film isn’t a large-scale clash over social culture, but After Hours makes it clear that Paul is the kind of button-pusher that shouldn’t be hanging around Soho at night, least he found him plummeting into bohemian purgatory. It's not really paranoia if they're really out to get you and the clues circle all around him while he stumbles throughout his urban nightmare. 

Often considered a “lesser” Scorsese, it was a project that the director took up after admitting that he was out of touch with a new blockbuster led world. Both Raging Bull (1980) and The King of Comedy (1982) had failed financially and Scorsese’s pet project The Last Temptation of Christ was abandoned by Paramount at that point. With this as the background, Scorsese moved towards smaller more independent fare. 

Smaller? Yes. Independent? Indeed. Lesser? Not by a long shot. Rewatching After Hours only highlighted how much of an anaconda of a movie it is. Full of the high running anxiety which bleeds through so many of his movies. Watching Paul squirm and struggle after each minor inconvenience wraps around him and becomes a larger problem is something of a macabre joy. Looking back at the one-two punch of this and the King of Comedy, I am fascinated by the amount of dark humour Scorsese gets out of the pervading menace of the urban night dwellers of the New York streets. Like Greek Theatre, Scorsese sees both the tragedy and the comedy in machismo. He still toys with masculinity in later movies (GoodFellas, The Wolf of Wall Street) however it is within earlier works such as this that feel somewhat more defined. Possibly because Paul is only one step up from a two-bit putz. Henry Hill and Jordan Belfort both have the charm to spare. It’s easy to see why people consider their actions in their respective movies to be glamorised. In After Hours, Paul is not so lucky. Late on in the movie, Paul witnesses a murder in a nearby apartment window. “I bet they’ll blame it on me.” He remarks. The crazy thing is, he is so deep into the inner-city sludge, a lot of it his own doing, we would more than likely agree. 

After Hours falls into the strange small sub-category of films in which our protagonists often stuck in a rut in their regular lives, endure madcap hijinks over the course of one night. Other features include the likes of John Landis’ cameo loaded Into the Night (1985), Doug Liman’s kinetic three-storied Go (1999), and perhaps my favourite movie House Party (1990). It’s a sub-genre I find myself enjoying due to the unpredictability that comes with the territory. Paraphrasing from the opening quote nothing good happens after 2 am. The lure, however, is seeing what happens to *these guys* at that time. Watching the cranks start to turn and the oddballs slide out of the shadows, with everything falling under a tightly wrapped cage of controlled chaos. It is the type of film that allows filmmakers to flex their muscles with economy and pace. If Scorsese was feeling frustrated at the idea of blockbuster movie making at the time, he conquers it here with a film that still harbours all his visual tics and themes. Hell, it even allows him to throw in shots reminiscent of the short silent Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory (1895). 

New Jersey writer Joseph Minion seemed to have a passion for the oddballs that wander New York City at night. Along with After Hours, his other feature screenplay of note is the Nicolas Cage vampire vehicle Vampire’s Kiss. Watching Cage as a literary agent slowly descend into hallucinatory madness is eventful, yet despite Vampire Kiss’s holding comparable surreal darkness to After Hours, along with similar anxieties towards women and yuppiedom, Minion’s work holds far more presence and control under the gaze of Scorsese and his crew. Vampire’s Kiss lacks the punch in the storytelling that the likes of Scorsese provides, allowing an overacting and irritating Cage lord all over the material. Amusingly it is no surprise that one of Cage’s best (and more subdued) performances comes in Scorsese’s 1999 film Bringing Out the Dead. Another film which deals with New York in the dead of night. It’s also a film that flopped commercially yet was well received by most who did see it. Additionally, there are no gangsters in sight. 

It’s interesting reading reviews of After Hours (Paul Attanasio and Vincent Carnby are examples) which state that the film “fails to satisfy”, that in itself brings around a small measure of humour. The film itself is almost entirely wrapped with male anxiety and the wish to please and satisfy women. The amusement comes from watching this office type flounder in front of all these women who are clearly more creative and process more control in their destinies. To quote The Rolling Stones “You can’t always get what you want” and that within this turn of events is not only funny but satisfying in its own way  

It would be wise to take note that the demise of one character does come off as unjust from a feminist reading standpoint, helping confirm what many already feel about Scorsese as a male director. Particularly after recent discourse over Anna Paquin’s character’s silence within The Irishman. However, I cannot say that this one aspect confirms the entire whole of the twisted universe of After Hours, in which the other female characters hold their own spikiness. Scorsese has never been the type of director I would look towards for certain female representation and I’ll try not to go back into the likes of his filmography to try and retcon the matter. However, I do find the women that appear in After Hours to be entertaining and sharp in the film's own special way, even if they are not the focus. Linda Fiorentino’s Kiki, for instance, may not feature in many scenes, but her “fuck you” attitude coming 9 years before The Last Seduction (1994) is certainly holds its charms.

The spotlight is however on Paul who holds a type of guilt which is common with Scorsese films of its ilk. Paul’s “blame” comment is funny because while his punishment doesn’t fit the crime, the film suggests this simps arrogance within the earlier segment of the film; courting Marcy (Roseanna Arquette) while hitting on rock chick Kiki, when Marcy steps out briefly, is more than enough to set the wheels of fate turning. It is the type of butterfly effect turn that has the film in common with Scorsese’s Cape Fear (1991). Someone is going to pay for that somehow. It is little surprise that The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) and Goodfellas (1990) are quick to get picked on when looking at Scorsese's work. Their asshole protagonists have little care in guilt or shame, which can make them dangerously glamourous to some. If only Paul was as brazen, he was in the earlier scenes. Then again, it’s clear he doesn’t know that nothing good happens after hours. He should have just gone home and slept. 

Blu-Ray Review: Journeyman

Disc Release Date: 30/07/2018

Director: Paddy Considine

Screenplay: Paddy Considine

Starring: Paddy Considine, Jodie Whittaker

Watching Journeyman at times reminded what a joy I find in watching British features, and how disappointed I am with production companies and distributors with their marketing and releasing of British films on their own soil. 16 years ago, I remember sitting in my (then) only local cinema being able to catch at least one screening of Shane Meadows, Once Upon a Time in the Midlands (2002). In the present day, in the same town, now equipped with two cinemas, it’s doubtful that a film like Journeyman would even get a sniff. The variables are many, yet it’s troubling to see that a film like this, despite its flaws, can seemingly disappear even easier in an age where so much social media mutterings relate to which begone property will be sequeled or rebooted. Journeyman is not for all tastes, but it’s existence gently reminds me of when that seemed to matter less, and a net would be cast further to see who would get caught.

The reference to Shane Meadows in the previous paragraph seems necessary when mentioning Paddy Considine as it was the casting choice of the director which brought Considine to prominence with head-turning displays in films such as A Room for Romeo Brass (1999) and Dead Man’s Shoes. (2004). It was around the time of Dead Man’s Shoes that the outlet placed consideration into the idea that the duo could be an English Scorsese and De Niro.  The films they worked on together often dealt with themes not too dissimilar from Scorsese, often centering around troubled males wracked with mental ambiguity constantly verging on the psychotic. Meadows already dabbled in pugilism with Twenty-Four Seven (1997), but it does feel somewhat surprising that the two hadn’t looked to create their own Raging Bull (1980).

Considine’s Journeyman, much like his feature debut Tyrannosaur (2011), carries Meadows DNA within it in many areas, not only with the similar direction of montages driven by melodic acoustic guitar artists. Journeyman not only utilises the sport of boxing to tell its story but again deals with mental health as well as questioning ideas of masculinity. Like Raging Bull, the boxing ring is a place where a toll is taken. Unlike the histrionics that fill many popular American fight features, the film holds a far more sobering tone.

Starting with Considine’s character Matty Burton looking to defend his recently won title against a cocky young fighter (Anthony Welsh). The boxing quickly moves to the background as Burton is found unconscious in his family home by his wife; Emma (Jodie Whittaker) after the title defence. What occurs afterward is a “fight” for Matty to find himself again as the delayed trauma obtained through the fight has resulted in memory loss and a profound alteration to his personality. The most challenging aspects of the film lie with how the dynamic changes between the previously warm, likable Matty and his family.

Journeyman’s effectiveness lies in its interest in what happens after the fight as opposed to a more typical build towards a final fight for glory, with the films most painful sequences being struggles between Matty and Emma. The most successful aspects of the film lie in the subtle manner Considine makes even the most mundane exercise a minefield of precarious hazard. Making a cup of tea. Dealing with a crying child. Many of the sequences feel reminiscent of dealing with someone with dementia. Whittaker excels here, and we can see all the patience of the character in her eyes and vocal cadence. Considine provides a great foil. Matty is told at the beginning of the film that the fight - in which his abilities are questioned from the off – will be a life changer and Considine’s performance pulls off the overwhelming effect of Matty’s head injury without leaning into I Am Sam (2001) territory. This is bread and butter to Considine of course with the punctuated outbursts of emotion and violence, having that same unpredictable feeling that was felt in his early work with Meadows. Despite this, it is the new Doctor Who who brings the deeper resonance, simply by not having the more “showy” verbal tics.

The film is neatly captured by regular Ben Wheatley cinematographer Laurie Rose. The crisp visuals once again become yet another showcase for Rose, with a wonderful mirrored shot of Matty reflected within a picture of himself in his glory days being a highlight. The muted, chilly tones shown here are also a refreshing change from the larger trend of warm yet strangely flat palettes that have inflated many films and shows as of late.

With all that Journeyman has going for it, there is frustration with the film’s relative neatness in its narrative. Considine poses a compelling question about what happens to Sportsmen who must hang up their gear by force. The film doesn’t shy away from having its lead character – whose job is led by intense and controlled aggression – be exposed by moments of vulnerability and uninhibited emotion. However, the film’s latter stages begin to knit things up in a way that feels more akin to the sports features of America, than finding its own path. It’s also unfortunate does this with what appears to be a sprinkling of unintended vanity. This perhaps won’t be a negative to sports fans who are happy with Journeyman’s “one man’s struggle” narrative. However, for those who may be looking for something that lingers in the mind a bit longer, may do well with heading back to Considine’s first feature. Either way, Journeyman is a film that highlights Paddy Considine’s considerable talents both in front of and behind the camera and reminds us of what often gets lost amongst the fight for filmgoers attentions. 

Review: End of Watch

Year: 2012
Director: David Ayer
Screenplay: David Ayer
Starring: Jake Gyllenhaal, Michael Pena, Anna Kendrick, Frak Grillo, America Ferrera

Synopsis is here

I was quite bowled over with End of Watch. Its combination of the mundane and the visceral really appealed to me. My girlfriend was less impressed, frustrated by the film's running time. I was less bothered by this. The film is in no way as economical as it could be, with the films length allowing some of its narrative aspects to almost trip it up. However the film is less about its narrative and more about its characters. For me, the film is effective when we gain the sense of just how haunted these police members are as they battle against the grimness of their eco-system.

There is visual inventiveness within the film too. End of Watch's cinematographer Geoffrey Jackobsson, confines these two officers within their police car. Note that the ironic and unfortunate district number is often caught as we cut around the vehicle with abstract Micheal Mann like shots. It's within this car we get to know these men personally. We see them at peace, see them at their sanctuary. This ideal only intensifies as we witness the danger the officers’ face each time they pick up a call and exit the vehicle. 

Much has been said about the films "found footage" aspect; often a bane of contention with many, here, I found aesthetic to be one of the film’s best touches. It's easy to feel that such an element is a gimmick thanks to the consistent use of the tactic by horror films, however, in the same way a director like Martin Scorsese uses 16mm to capture a feel of nostalgia and history, Director David Ayer uses the "handy cam" footage to accurately convey a certain sense of relevance of our current culture. Its opening sequence, a car chase with downtown LA, doesn't have the pace that we often see in a crime thriller (such is the beauty of good editors), but it does have the realism. Take away Gyllenhaal and Pena and this could be any video lifted from youtube. Not all of it works. Like so many films which dabble in "user generated" footage; one may find it hard to believe that, say, hardened gangster would be filming some of their exploits in such a way. But while there's a feeling of the improbable, it's never impossible, and the film using the method as a part of the aesthetic and not the whole, allows an intimacy and immediacy that works well with the narrative and the genre. 

David Ayer (writer of Training Day) captures the distress of the situations so well it shows on the characters faces. Part of the film’s success with me is that; despite its somewhat generic plot, its grimness is boiled down to such a concentrated level you can feel it on everybody's skin. My girlfriend's aforementioned issue with the length of the film is an interesting one, mostly because I loved how the film happily spends much of its time with its main relationship, getting under the skin of these guys, seeing what makes them tick. We gain such a sense of these characters that when they are affronted with what they see, we can feel it in their bones as much as they can. We understand why they're so hardened, and we can fear and/or pity them accordingly. They remind me of coroners, having to place a shield between them and their subject to deal with their day to day harshness. It's compelling when the darkness breaks through.

You need a good cast for this, and End of Watch picks a strong bunch of talent and plays to all of their strengths.  Gynllenhaal is always at his best as a jaded, young recruit be it of the Army or Giant Time Travelling Bunnies and the choice of him being the main thrust of the narrative is a solid one. Pena is superb as Gynllenhaal's foil. While Gynllenhaal's Brian Taylor deals with the worrying conundrums of it all, Pena's Mike Zavala is the heart of the film. All emotions and hot blood, Zavala is the most instinctive and reactive out of the two. Pena's performance takes something that could feel stale and typical and injects new energy to it. The chemistry between the two is so engaging that one could easily just watch them shoot the shit. It's worth mentioning a sweet performance from Anna Kendrick as well as a nice turn from Frank Grillo, who places the perfect amount of weight to a small but important scene.

End of Watch doesn't do too much in way of fresh storytelling, but the films technique and performances bring forth a bold and riveting piece about two men trying to do good in a corrosive environment.