Mark Kermode 

The Monuments Men – review | Mark Kermode

George Clooney's drama about a team of misfits at war with Nazi art thieves fails to strike the right tone, writes Mark Kermode
  
  

The Monuments Men, film
Matt Damon (James Granger) and George Clooney (Frank Stokes) in The Monuments Men, 'which wobbles between twinkly smiles and schmaltzy frowns'. Photograph: Claudette Barius Photograph: Claudette Barius/PR

Look at the famous faces adorning the posters for this second world war caper and it is hard to figure out whether they're meant to be stony-faced or ever-so-slightly smirking. The same is true of the film, which wobbles uneasily between twinkly smiles and schmaltzy frowns, struggling to decide just how seriously to take its subject matter. The premise is promising: a ragtag team of misfits from Europe and America, united by a shared love of art, sent into the field of battle to stop the Nazis plundering and/or destroying the fruits of human culture – paintings, books, sculptures, icons etc.

The message is clear – fight people and they fight back; destroy their culture and they cease to exist – and neither Clooney nor co-writer Grant Heslov is afraid to say this out loud, ensuring that no one misses the point. In The Monuments Men, words speak louder than action.

Having proved his directorial mettle with the likes of Good Night, and Good Luck and The Ides of March, which exhibited a Redfordian blend of entertainment and education, Clooney remains dedicated to the principle of making populist movies that mean something. With its A-list cast, handsome historical setting and clearly defined humanist argument, this ought to be a treat and there is indeed plenty to smile about: Bill Murray and Bob Balaban's odd-couple shtick; John Goodman's gruff avuncularity; Jean Dujardin's thousand-yard smile; Clooney's dashing presence, with hair, 'tache and twinkle channelling Clark Gable.

Yet the tonal uncertainty undermines complete engagement, taking the edge off both the drama and the comedy, leaving the film floundering episodically in no-man's-land. A scratchy, sentimental rendition of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas feels unearned and the sparks spectacularly fail to fly between Matt Damon and Cate Blanchett, the latter unsure how far to push ze European accent, apparently fearful of straying into 'Allo 'Allo! territory. All in all, a revisionist Hollywood hotchpotch; easy on the eye, gentle on the heart, light on the head.

 

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