Review by Neil Davey
Stars Gemma Arterton, Martin Compston, Eddie Marsan. And a van, a bed, a particularly nasty tracksuit, ropes, some handcuffs, a couple of guns and some pay-as-you-go phones
Written by J Blakeson
Certification UK 18
Runtime 100 minutes
Directed by J Blakeson
What it must be to be rich. The things you could buy, the places you could go, the kidnappers you could attract... The latter is the issue currently facing Alice Creed (Arterton), the daughter of a Sunday Times Rich Listee. She's young, slim (which is important when someone's got to cart her over their shoulder) and her dad is loaded. She's the perfect victim for Vic (Marsan) and young accomplice Danny (Compston) and their get-rich-quick attempt.
The kidnap has been planned meticulously and things start well. Alice has been abducted successfully and moved to the multiply-locked flat they've adapted for the purpose. She's chained to a bed. They've dispatched the photos and film of her looking distressed and begging her daddy for the ransom and it's worked: another day or so and Mr Creed will cough up the required millions. And Vic and Danny will be somewhere the other side of the world and rolling in non-sequential £50s. It all depends though on Alice playing the perfect victim. Alice (but of course) has other ideas.
As with the kidnap plan, The Disappearance of Alice Creed starts with considerable promise. The kidnap preparation plays out with dialogue-free, brutal coldness, setting the film in a chilling manner that's ripe with possibilities and (probably) tragic consequences. It's brilliantly handled and, almost inevitably, promises a standard that cannot be maintained. Disappointingly, the slip in standards is pretty much instantaneous and, despite admirable efforts from Arterton, Compston and, particularly, Marsan and a couple of decent-enough twists, thoughts that this could be a dark British classic vanish quickly.The problem? Blakeson's pacing.
At the precise point where the plot suggests the tension is being racked up, Blakeson lets his foot slip off the gas and, instead of slipping to the edge of your seat for a barnstorming climax, you're more likely to glance at your watch to see how long there is to go. Somewhere in here is a perfectly adequate and possibly quite good thriller trying to get out. Sadly, it’s currently hiding behind at least 10 minutes of flab.