A legend in his own lunchtime...

I have a huge amount of respect for actors; I also have a huge amount of respect for film directors, and my admiration for actors who direct themselves is unbounded. This is the cinematic equivalent of patting your head and rubbing your stomach, but with the added pressure of risking millions of pounds of someone else’s money in the process.

Some actor-directors are very good; Clint Eastwood and Kenneth Branagh come to mind. Some are very bad; step forward Steven Seagal. Most come somewhere in the middle and the lower end of that category is pretty much where we find Robert Carlyle in his feature directing debut The Legend of Barney Thomson.

The kindest description of this alleged black comedy would be workmanlike. Carlyle takes the title role as a patter-challenged Glasgow barber who is being fired for his lack of bonhomie. An unfortunate accident during an argument ends up with his boss dead on the floor on the wrong end of Barney’s scissors.

It is at this point that the film does that thing that all poor films do and has people behave the way they only do in the movies. Barney proceeds on an elaborate and illogical train of actions involving hiding bodies, concocting alibis, and generally turning into an accidental serial killer. Given that the inept local police are already dealing unsuccessfully with a genuine serial killer it is inevitable that the two stories will collide, which they do with a dull thud.

Lurking in the background is Barney’s mother, played by Emma Thompson. The fact that there is only a two-year age gap between Thompson and Carlyle says a lot about this film. She proves surprisingly unshocked by Barney’s exploits but she has motives of her own.  The film spins out of control very quickly as the action and the performances become increasingly frantic and hysterical. The final shoot-out borders on pantomime.

But it does have its moments. Barney disposing of a body in the middle of a loch is genuinely comic and Thompson’s final speech is terrifyingly effective. Other than that the film misses the mark.

The performances are oddly out of sync. Carlyle, a fine actor, brings very little to Barney while Emma Thompson plainly wants to add to her gallery of stage and screen grotesques with her harpie-like turn as his mother. Ashley Jensen, Ray Winstone, Kevin Guthrie, and the unfortunate Tom Courtenay are similarly ill-served by a tin-eared script.

Sadly it’s the direction that disappoints most. Carlyle plainly loves Glasgow and the East End locations present a side of the city seldom seen on screen. But they are so uninteresting here. In the unfortunate recent traditions of Scottish cinema it is relentlessly uncinematic. Everything happens in the centre of the frame like no one ever heard of the rule of thirds; the over reliance on close-ups makes it all seem flat and you get the sense of the action simply happening rather than being guided by any intention.

In the end The Legend of Barney Thomson shows that Robert Carlyle can rub his stomach and pat his head; just not at the same time.