Review by Benjamin Poole
Directed by: Nicolai Schümann
Starring: Edward Hogg, Richard Glover, Angela Peters, Jennifer Preston, Holly Gordon-Clark
Serves me right for opening last week's review with an extended paragraph extolling the virtues of being a recluse... While Corina breezily centred on overcoming agoraphobia, in a constrictive dynamic Nicolai Schumann's darker thriller is predicated upon Edward Hogg's Rupert (arrogant millionaire; mien of a lesser investor on Dragon's Den; called "Rupert": ie, a real shit of a guy) waking up in a locked room the size of a new build bedroom with only a mobile phone, a nice suit and the cold draught from a gap situated a prohibitive 16 feet above him in his favour. At this rate of shrinkflation, will next week's review focus on Taika Waititi's impending reimagination of 1987's Innerspace (starring I suppose Jack Quaid and, I dunno, Kathryn Newton)? Does diminishing space equal diminishing returns?
In an archetypal instance of the "small man in a box" movie (Buried, Devil, Room), we see Rupert come to in an oblique quadrangle. With The Lonely Musketeer's monochrome cinematography and expressionist style, the blocky confine could actually be Doctor Caligari's cabinet... Immediately upon waking, Rupert fires up his mobile (Nokia 3310, the people's phone: narratively repurposed here because no audience would accept a modern mobile lasting for the extended amount of time Rupert spends in the cooler) to give it some flannel about "the Chinese negotiating over our fee structure," almost nonchalant about his narrowed context. In this eat-the-rich climate, Rupert is positioned as the sort of Hooray Henry who is seemingly prone to such noxious repartee as being drugged and left to rot in a tight concrete hole (a characteristic further facilitated by Hogg's resemblance to ex-Member of Parliament for Esher and Walton, Dominic Raab). His down the line mate informs him that he went off "with a prostitute," who was "beautiful," and that it's probably all a joke that has backfired.
Nonetheless, the black and white photography signifies that all is not well, and that Rupert's predicament is more than just bants gone wild. Judgment should always be reserved for films which choose the greyscale option: it can feel a bit like a cheat, a shortcut for making your film seem that bit more serious and worthy of careful consideration. Yet here the ashy photography (courtesy of Bruce Jackson) provides vital tonal context for the unfolding mystery of why Rupert is stuck and who is behind it. You have to hand it to Hogg, though. Give or take a few flashback sequences, he is on screen through all of The Lonely Musketeer's 90 minute plus run time and as the story develops he absolutely carries it, selling the direness of his situation via increasing the urgency of his phone calls and his caged animal desperation. There's an interesting motif throughout where Rupert changes his register and tone depending on who he is talking to, suggesting that his perceived identity is an empty performance, and that the Rupert we see – anguished, increasingly broken - is the sordid truth of the matter. A deconstruction of toxic masculinity.
And perhaps this very facet is the central problem of The Lonely Musketeer: as stated, Rupert is a git, and there is little narrative space for him to appear otherwise. This makes it difficult for us to root for him or care about his potential retreat. It's not like in Frozen not-that-one (my fave of this sort of film) when she goes on about her puppy not being fed and your heart is in your mouth. There is a sop when Rupert rings his eight-year-old son, but you get the impression that the kid would be better off without him anyway. Nonetheless, Schumann handles the off-screen drama well, with stakes rising as a Jeremy Kyle-style telly gobshite gets wind of Rupert's quagmire and rings him live from the show (oddly the programme seems to be broadcast for 24 hours?). Along with the Nokia, the Kyle element is an oddly retrograde element which gives the film a pleasing idiosyncrasy (like in The Substance, with its weird bricolage of modern tech and archaic keep-fit telly: these films which create their own little anachronistas), and provides welcome drama by cleverly drawing on the negotiating skills which have self-made Rupert. However, despite its welcome oddness and its moments of emotional impact (the ending, the reason for it all, is appropriately horrific), there isn't quite enough to sustain The Lonely Musketeer's feature length, and towards the third act you too may feel confined by its singular narrative purpose.
