Mr. Brooks

I’m loving the re-habilitation of Kevin Costner. It seems like just the other day that the hero of one of my favourite movies ever – No Way Out – was swamping himself entirely in the gunky self-indulgence of  The Postman and Waterworld – potentially unforgiveable errors further compounded by calling Madonna’s Bedtime Stories show “neat” (and for which he was witheringly put down by the Knickerless One.)

After a couple of minor movies where Kev held his own in familiar territory, in Mr. Brooks, he steps out into the kind of character that we’ve rarely seen him play – a nutter. Mr. Brooks is a psychopath. One of his personalities sits in the back seat as he drives and back chats. He kills for fun. He’s even got a nickname in the press –  and he’s being hunted by a dedicated cop with a messy marriage, who’s working for love not money. And there’s the dumbass Mr. Smith, who thinks he can play Mr. Brooks at his own game.

Mr. Brooks is a taut thriller that’s atmospheric and handled well. It’s set in Portland, Oregon (Mr. Brook’s has just been honoured as Man of the Year by the Chamber of Commerce) but it shot in Shreveport, Louisiana thanks to the State’s aggressive incentives programme.

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