The Man From U.N.C.L.E- The 60s Show, Served In Style

‘Aren’t they friends now?’ asked John Connor in James Cameron’s superlative ‘Terminator 2- Judgment Day’; he was obviously referring to America’s hitherto favorite enemies- Russians. Yet, in the world of Guy Ritchie’s latest rollicking spy caper, the yodeling Yankees and the sneaky Soviets can actually be, not just friends, but also partners in a mission to save the world. And no, as the KGB boss of this film’s red-necked Russian tough-guy informs him, one should never kill his partner on the first day of the mission.

Such wishful thinking itself makes ‘The Man From U.N.C.L.E’ such a must-watch for the fans of the ready-made spy thriller genre but Ritchie, one of the most unabashedly cocky and cheeky directors of recent times, has also laced the indulgent meat with the choicest sauce of the freewheeling zing best associated with the decade of The Beatles, Flower Power and ‘Dr. Strangelove’- I am talking of course the colorful and freaked out 60s, also incidentally the era when both the super-powers were embattled in the fiercest space and missile race as well as the most entrenched propaganda (as portrayed faithfully by the wonderfully jazzy opening credits).

Yet the reason quite why we still hold in fascination the old James Bond films, even as the newer outings boast of more political relevance and riskier stakes, is how that chunk of 60s cinema has often captured the turbulent, far-from-cold war in firmly tongue-in-cheek ways and the result has been great entertainment cinema- escapism filled with charm and campy camaraderie.

‘The Man From U.N.C.L.E’ is not quite clever as those wonderfully unassuming films of yore but boy, it does best what it sets out to do- serve a simple, largely guessable and even politically sterile spy movie premise with a sizzling 60s sauce of frothy color, cheeky humor and- most crucially- a wonderful and whimsical sense of crackling bromance that alone makes the entire stylish-looking film soar, much like James Bond’s reliable jetpack.

                        

It begins in a dark and dire East Berlin, the kind of place where you can see Soviet soldiers walking the streets as if they have stayed on since 1945. Impeccably dressed CIA agent Napoleon Solo (sounding a bit like an unforgettably iconic hustler from the yore of classic blockbuster cinema) is here- to help defect Gaby Teller, an innocuous-looking femme fatale who is being spied by the laconic KGB star Illya Kuryakin, who is also driven, bitterly, to kill Solo himself. And yet, a nasty brawl inside a bathroom later, the two are told by their respective intelligence heads to unite to stave off certain nuclear disaster at the hands of none other than their erstwhile common foe-covert Nazis.

If all this sounds a bit too serious like a Le Carre paperback, rest assured it isn’t. This is a film packed literally with glitz and goof- with Ritchie and co-writer Lionel Ingram making the proceedings refreshingly laidback and more content with the sparkling wit flowing in the verbal repartee and the overall feel to the enterprise rather than detailing itself. This is a film which throws its oddly matched lead pair into a plucky adventure filled with more spills than thrills. It is positively hilarious to see the two ace cloaks and daggers fumbling in a sunbaked, Euro-pudding Rome and with enough juicy nuance to these riotously comic set-pieces. Kuryakin, for instance, a tough guy, who when explaining his brawn under disguise intones that he jogs, has a luggage of psychotic batshit behind him and often finds it slipping from his meaty grasp on the field while Solo, a cocky, self-assured scrounger of the highest order, can also fall prey to the most melting of all seductions.

All these are great moments ripe for the film to deliver brilliant, well-earned guffaws, and some may suspect that ‘The Man From U.N.C.L.E’, despite taking quite a lot of the zing from the famous TV series, is Ritchie’s eye-rolling pastiche of the spy genre- the same way his London gangster yarns of the 90s. But make no mistake; even beneath the back-slapping hilarity, there is some actual heart to this deliciously flaky plotting. Much of the film’s emotional throb and comic spontaneity is amply provided by the remarkably natural and well-timed chemistry between its male leads. To begin with, both resent each other’s tastes and espionage technologies and yet, driven by something far more significant than their respective missions, they stick together nevertheless and end up becoming uncanny buddies. It is this wonderfully fresh bromance between these two leads- between the hunk and the chunk that makes the film so endearing, even when its cylinders are not quite firing.

Yet, it doesn’t quite matter to Ritchie whether they have to fire or not. There is a wonderfully languid and leisurely feel to this thing and while this might disappoint those expecting a surge of adrenalin that the director brings to even his most flawed outings, all this rather looks and sounds sublime, given how finely crafted it all is. In the middle of the film’s relentless and voluntarily funny spills of the spy tropes, there is a truly wonderful moment- scored beautifully to a piece of classical radio music- when a boat pursuit going in the backdrop is rendered secondary to some classic indulgence- a swig of a drink, a bit of a loaded sandwich and some nice, wry contemplation. The scene sums up the film’s approach pretty well- this is a film cheerfully taking itself not even an ounce seriously. Ritchie is all in the surface- adding his own typical zingy, whimsical and split-screen trickery all set to a killer score (shot marvelously by John Mathieson) and shooting the locations with an inspired blend of Bond-style kitsch and when two spies in disguise take a night walk near the ruins of a Roman gallery, we can recognize a nicely placed nod from ‘North By Northwest’. There is more of this clever film-referencing in a scene modeled on a similar situation in the Roger Moore-classic ‘Live And Let Die’. Perfect.

Some of this fascinatingly frippery blend of original quirk and inspired pastiche also becomes darkly serious, in the most self-assured way possible. The fascinating score, for one thing, when not echoing jazz classics of the age, often swells up like Ennio Morricone’s instruments in top, slinky form- Ritchie uses these crescendos subtly and perceptively- and in one unforgettable scene, things turn extraordinarily menacing and truly dark- with an evil scientist justifying his devilish intentions with all the delusional grandeur of a classic villain straight out of Tarantino. Ritchie also packs in the right amount of snap and slink- his dialogue quick, quirky and solidly punchy even with memorable nods to whether Dior matches with Paco Rabbane or not- as well as welcome digs at technological glitches as well as the right mannerisms and culture clashes.

The action, however, is purely incidental- both good and a bit of a downer. The opening hilarious yet exhilarating defection- with the two agents battling it out, one with brains, the other with brawns- is a hell of a white-knuckle chase, fashioned like a breakneck Looney Tunes chase and a final vehicular rumble through the thick jungle packs in much sober punch but in between, we have mostly comic standoffs when one would expect some more heat. In the old Bond films, things often ended with a big bang- some contrived yet spectacular finale inside some hidden fortress, hideout, lair or even in some exotic locale and this film merely ends with a stellar joke- not a bad idea, really but what about a bomb defused with a password that reads ‘UNCLE’? 

Nevertheless, there is plenty of wit between the proceedings and this alone overcomes the flimsiness of the material all around- there are some little nuggets that are absolute surprises, adding some wonderful sophistication to the show on display. And boy, the casting works wonders.

Henry Cavill, a delicious-looking Brit, who was last seen squirming unhappily in his other-worldly superhero tights, is an absolute blast as Solo, looking uncannily like a resurrected Roger Moore with a jet-black mane of brilliantine and, it must be noted, drastically lesser ham. He knows his way in a dapper suit quite well and it is his assured ways in the film that add to the buttery-smoothness. He is quite a charmer, literally, delivering his lines with finesse and using his hands and silver-coated tongue to whistle-worthy effect.

The women bring the heat but also remain firmly interesting themselves- Alicia Vikander’s Gaby is a sun-kissed beauty blessed with a deceptive sweetness as well as an enigmatic stare that makes her so deliciously sketchy. And Elizabeth Debicki is a truly terrifying vamp- her Victoria is the film’s equivalent of a classic Bond villain and she also serves as a great femme fatale. The way she gazes hawk-like at a near-unconscious Solo in the velvety grip of her manicured talons is both richly sensuous and supremely unsettling in the old-school way.

Yet no one gets the beat of this twisted caper quite like Armie Hammer, as the thick-headed Soviet Kuryakin. It is perhaps a seemingly gigantic miscast- for Hammer is every bit a muscular American in contrast to the normal exotic flavor that the Eastern portrayal usually requires. But what is wondrous is how Hammer makes it all so believable. He is convincingly rugged and thuggish in his ballsy action sequences and looks truly badass when ripping off the butt of a car but he is equally lovable when insisting that Gaby, playing his supposed fiancé in the spy con, should dress according to his whims. He is quite a goof when simmering silently to the point of using his fists and equally slick when chucking at the American bugs placed inside his hotel room and announcing that they are technologically inferior as well. And he is absolutely a blast when narrating, with prudent seriousness and equal slipperiness, that Rome’s Spanish Steps are actually a Soviet creation, echoing a trenchant form of propaganda.

‘The Man From U.N.C.L.E’ is a crowd-pleaser in the purest sense possible- a wonderful flaky piece of entertainment- brimming with some well-used spy clichés, adding some genuine little twists and turns and making the most of the dazzling 60s style and its superbly confident cast to craft both a nice buddy adventure- something like ‘Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid’ of the cloak and dagger genre- as well as an old-school caper. It might not have ground-breaking thrills or a searing narrative punch but who cares? ‘Kingsman –The Secret Service’ has already delivered the former, while ‘Spectre’ is just a few months away to deliver the latter and perhaps, for the moment, all we need is a bit of the same laidback moment of bemused, grinning reflection- accompanied with a few delectable surprises in that box on the seat. Ritchie doles them out and with great, tasty sauce to go along with them. As Solo would ask, 'How is that for entertainment'?

My Rating- Three and a half stars out of Five