Danny Boyle's "Trance"
I’m not one of those people who finds it easy to spot plot-holes in films; the screenplay for “Trance”, however (John Hodge working with Joe Ahearne’s original), piles implausibility upon implausibility with such a gleeful disdain for logic that even I couldn't help but notice that it makes no sense whatsoever. Danny Boyle is one of my favourite directors (although I’ve continued to avoid “127 Hours”, because of, you know, the thing that happens), his style being kinetic without straying into incoherent hyperactivity; thus, in conjunction with cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle, he delivers a visual feast, subtly but propulsively complemented by Rick Smith’s Underworld-esque score. Using an art theft as a hook on which to hang a tale of obsession and vengeance, its central characters are B-movie staples – the unreliable narrator (James McAvoy, mercifully using his own accent), the ruthless gangster (Vincent Cassel), the luscious “is-she-or-isn’t-she” femme fatale (Rosario Dawson); and the story turns on definitions of “hypnosis” and “amnesia” which owe far more to Hollywood than any medical text-book. Despite, or perhaps because of this, “Trance” is a majestically entertaining piece of work, sending the audience down several circuitous garden paths whilst serving us multiple guilty pleasures. An audacious triumph.