Terry offers Tate an in on a big drug deal, if he can get his goofy underlings Tony and Craig to bring the cash over from the UK without losing it on the way on sex workers in Amsterdam. Much sniffing, shagging, snickering and throat slitting ensues, all soundtracked to club bangers from the era, including Corona's The Rhythm of the Night, New Order's Blue Monday and the delightfully naff early-90s house novelty record Ebeneezer Goode by the Shamen.
The British guns, geezers and gore franchise is four films in now, and you have to wonder what thin slice of the film-consuming demographic the makers imagine they're catering for. The last one, Rise of the Footsoldier 3: The Pat Tate Story, barely made any scratch theatrically.
But they do seem to be having fun, judging by the relentless chortling and chuckling that emanates from Stone and Manookian, seemingly high on some kind of happy-hearted supply of joy even as their characters steal, stab and slice. The whole thing is horribly nihilistic and cheerful all at once.
The British guns, geezers and gore franchise is four films in now, and you have to wonder what thin slice of the film-consuming demographic the makers imagine they're catering for. The last one, Rise of the Footsoldier 3: The Pat Tate Story, barely made any scratch theatrically.
But they do seem to be having fun, judging by the relentless chortling and chuckling that emanates from Stone and Manookian, seemingly high on some kind of happy-hearted supply of joy even as their characters steal, stab and slice. The whole thing is horribly nihilistic and cheerful all at once.
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