The League of Gentlemen finally ended. Yeah, well fine - the film may have come out over a year and a half ago, but I relented in watching it right up until this week. Paralyzed by the fear of a comedy cash in, troubled by doubts over how the programme could possibly transfer to the silver screen. Well how did it? Not very well to be brutal, despite the sudden proliferation of acclaim from critics who missed the humor the first time round when there was no laughing track - this film was missing something. Despite a clear love of the characters shining through in a film that stands as the erection of a mausoleum to Royston Vasey, the writers moved away from Royston and entered into a rather silly cinematic device that reminds me of Wes Cravens Final Nightmare, the one where Freddie crosses over and starts attacking the cast of his latest movie, an awfull excuse perhaps to get the actors on screen, sneaking some acclaim and recognition from behind the masks of their characters. Then there was the awful redundant digression into a sub plot based in the 17th century that was like some rejected script from Blackadder. Ah well, things could have been worse, the third series was really reduced to the state of a rather twisted sketch show rather than a twisted universe.

Labels: Film, TV