Takes nerves of steel to deliberately write a screenplay that makes everyone -- actors and audience alike -- uncomfortable.
The opening is the best part, and then it is all downhill from there. Like a toboggan run.
Danny Dyer, who has probably played every possible variant of a east end thug there is, walks taller and stands straighter than usual in his portrayal of a rogue hit-man. And frankly he is not bad. For a few brief moments, there was serious potential for this film.
The part he plays is a strange UK variant on the early Charles Bronson persona, strong silent type, the don't mess with me type, and. as stated, it is promising.
There is even an amusing "trope" where Danny's character, wearing a dark helmet, zips around London -- THE MOST "CAMERA'd" CITY ON THE PLANET -- on his motorbike, and yet is magically invisible to the video surveillance. That is so absurd it is almost fun.
After a job, he stops at a strip club and is conveniently on hand to rescue a very attractive dancer from unwanted advances by her dealer.
So far, so good.
Then the awkwardness starts. The "hit" he just performed was by coincidence the father of his new squeeze. Did you ever have one of those days? Worse, the bird and her BFF are suddenly playing Miss Marple and are determined to find out what "really" happened., They start sniffing around the bunch that ordered the hit, the very same guys Danny works for.
Are you feeling awkward yet? If you watch this screenplay unfold to the bitter bitter end, you will.
Ordinary rules of dramatic exposition are tossed under the bus in favour of a strange and stubborn zeal to make the viewer wonder if he should perhaps be home doing his taxes instead of watching this travesty unfold.
And a great beginning is totally wasted.