The Echo

Shown here all 150 minutes in one film – plus advertising breaks! You might think that a TV thriller taking up well over three hours of your time would dissuade you, but I can assure you that with a couple of cool drinks, a handful of almonds and a few peanuts to help you along, `The Echo' is worth your while.

Well-paced telling and directing, good filming, and good acting all round. Especially the leading actors. Clive Owen – never heard of him before – is excellent as a news-reporter, never too sleazy and keeping his rôle well defined at all times. In no way does he come out as a caricature of bygone private detectives snooping around: this film is too intelligent to fall into such clichéd concepts. Joely Richardson plays out her part very nicely, thankyou, though her affected accent does not seem very Londoner at times: things of the upper classes? Apart from that she managed to keep a difficult role in hand without unnecessary deviations into exaggerated interpretation. This must be due, I think, to Lawrence's careful but strict directing.

Indeed, it is Lawrence's directing, adapted from a novel of rather mediocre concepts, which has so intelligently built on and improved the story-telling.

In the film we can see some of the new down-river scenery, where the River Thames was once a bustling port, but now turned into residential areas, mostly for the yuppies and other upper classes.

At the beginning of his stardom appears Clive Owen in this mixed-up mystery. As reporter Mike Deacon, he gets assigned to do a story about poverty, focusing on a bum named Billy Blake who killed himself gruesomely in a stranger's garage. But Mike senses there's more to Billy and his death than meets the eye.

A plot unravels which may or may not include embezzlement, shady business, secret identity, and murder. These kinds of plots tend to be convoluted to begin with, but "The Echo" is remarkable for how haphazardly it handles everything.

Maybe its source novel was stuffed with too many themes, plot twists, cliches, and quirky characters. "Echo" veers all over the place. First it's a mystery, then it's a family drama, then it's a drama about a self-loathing bum who spouts poetry and draws perfect forgeries of classic paintings on the sidewalk. And what the heck, now let's make one of Mike's acquaintances an idiotic trespassing voyeur.

Oddly, Part 2 changes into comedy for a long time. I did titter at watching middle-aged John Forgeham (always dressed in a track suit) chase down a nerdy prowler. (The prowler had come back to a courtyard to fetch something, but clumsy filmmaking makes us think he'd sat in the courtyard all night, and waited till daylight to make his getaway!)

The tone and dialogue get noticeably sillier, to the point of full-blown domestic farce as Mike hosts his lawyer and not one, but two troubled houseguests for Xmas. These include a homeless person said to be a minor, but played by a balding man. Ian Bartholomew is along for the ride, fuming and running around as a frustrated detective, the poor dear.

The filmmakers seem to give up; answers mostly come from "info dumps". Billy's death is supposed to have symbolic meaning to someone, but it's just lame--no character could've figured it out as intended.

Of course, our hero Mike must be a tragic one, a slobby chain smoker with a dysfunctional family and a painful past. Supposedly he gains a moral education about this. Not only is it time-consuming, but also it's linked to yet another weird shift in tone, as the program suddenly turns religious, and preaches to us about damnation and the sanctity of life. We're told that some things are "worse than crimes... They're sins!" Yes, you will hear churchy choir music on the soundtrack. Rather hypocritically, the movie bashes someone for assisting a suicide, while approving another suicide as a noble attempt to help someone.

Our bad boy reporter even acts like a priest all of a sudden, and scolds a woman in a scene filmed as if it's a Catholic confession behind a screen! Whatever points Mike has, the fact that he lectures her so soon after (unrelatedly) she had been raped left a bad taste in my mouth.

This movie is worth watching. Like so many British movies, their is not a lot of action. Great acting. Great plot.

Six months ago a tramp was found dead in the garage of the wealthy Amanda Powell. Now journalist Mike Deacon is sent to investigate, and finds only questions: who was the tramp before his life on the streets? Why did he die of starvation next to a freezer full of food? And whatever happened to Amanda's husband, once suspected of fraud and not seen since?

This is a powerful, gripping adaptation, that gets more from its source, a sub-standard Minette Walters mystery novel, than it deserves to. As we are deluged by programmes for which it is more profitable to turn our brains forcefully off, it's refreshing to see something as intelligent and thought-provoking as this. It's aided immensely by dignified and atmospheric direction and music, and a well-written and skilfully structured script.

However, its greatest strength is in the acting. Clive Owen gives a charmingly strong presence to his somewhat stereotypically conceived journalist (full credit to the make-up people for monitoring his stubble as it treads the fine line between sexy and scuzzy) while doing ample justice to his character's pleasingly heavy emotional baggage.

The harder role, however, is that of the mendacious Amanda Powell, whose motives are just as mysterious as Joely Richardson's bizarre mid-Atlantic accent. But somehow she gives this enigmatic character a real sense of personality as she navigates the twists and falsehoods of the script - with us, the audience, perfectly happy where we are: with Mike Deacon, half a step behind...

It's not perfect, though; it can sometimes appear a bit too smart for its own good, and perhaps doesn't really tackle the prevalent issue of homelessness as well as it could have. And it doesn't help that so much of the plot's resolution hinges on that least cinematic of the senses: smell. But it's a classy production, that promises a lot, and even if it doesn't deliver all it could, it still gives more than a lot of stuff you'll see today.

Highly recommended.

This is a complex story – perhaps too complex for its own good and some viewers. Drawn in, however, as I was after twenty minutes, I decided to press on to reach its resolution, even though I felt, at times, that the plot twists bordered on the absurd. My main reason for carrying on had nothing to do with the story: I was more interested in seeing an early offering from Clive Owen.

Anyway, the basic story is as follows: A woman, Amanda Powell (Joely Richardson), finds a dead homeless tramp, Billy Blake (Anton Lesser), in her garage. Strangely, she pays for his funeral even though she doesn't know him. Six months after that event, a loose-cannon-type reporter, Michael Deacon (Clive Owen), is given the job of interviewing Amanda as part of a newspaper series about the urban homeless of London. Deacon is quite pushy, even arrogant (Clive Owen does arrogance exceedingly well), during the interview. Most importantly, he is mystified why Amanda paid for the tramp's funeral; and she won't say.

So, naturally, he digs deeper and the real story starts when he discovers that Amanda had been married to a banker who'd disappeared eight years ago with ten million pounds: as the saying goes, follow the money. In addition, the gnawing issue of the dead tramp kept intruding: is there a connection between Billy and Amanda, after all? Why were his hands almost burned beyond use? And why did he die of starvation beside a frig full of food?

Too many questions and no answers for Deacon. Hence, together with the help from his photographer associate, Emma (Selena Cadell), a homeless street kid, Terry (Kevin Knapman) and others, Deacon finally arrives at a denouement that is plausible to a point but one that requires some extraordinary co-incidences. Now, I'm not against the use of coincidence in a story at all: I've experienced some exceedingly extraordinary coincidences in my life, and I've read about many more. I'm sure the same goes for you.

However, the trail of the missing ten million quid leads to another story which further leads to another story which, in turn, leads back to why that damn tramp died in the garage – much like unpacking a series of Russian dolls: hence, the quite oblique metaphor contained within the title of this movie. Strangely though, it all ties neatly together which attests to a well-constructed narrative and screenplay; although, one can be forgiven for seeing the shadow of Agatha Christie hovering in the wings.

Never mind: I was happy enough to see just how far Clive Owen could go with his nasty reporter attitude and how he resolves his own personal demons vis-à-vis his parents – a significant sub-plot that fleshes out the character of Michael Deacon. So, if you like Clive Owen, see this movie. Moreover, I was pleasantly surprised by Joely Richardson whom I'd not seen before this. Her performance matched Owen's perfectly.

Being a quality BBC production, it has all the finesse, finance and fittings that ensure a top-notch presentation. The Brits seems to churn out these gritty urban stories better than most, I think.

Give it seven out of ten. Recommended for all.

February 17, 2012