Vice
One of the first things we see in Adam McKay’s new film is a battered car woozily swerving from side to side down a dark and lonely path. The car is promptly stopped by a police officer, who arrests the chunky, slurring figure of Dick Cheney, played with understated menace by Christian Bale. In a way, this opening scene acts as a near perfect metaphor for the film itself. It’s a punch-drunk, erratic and meandering affair; a vehicle spiralling out of control with no sense of restraint from its driver. Unfortunately, unlike the sozzled Cheney, Vice is never halted. There is no lawful third party to reign in its sense of chaotic excess. Instead, it races on and on, ending up in one great big car crash of a film. The problem with Vice isn’t its political stance (which I wholeheartedly agree with) but the smug, arrogant way in which it delivers it. McKay smothers you with every single cinematic device up his sleeve in such a self-congratulatory way that I was left exhausted by the