DAYS OF HELL

Back for more. Why? Well, that's a difficult one. To fear that you are becoming addicted to Tonino Ricci films is not a pleasant sensation. The dribble begins to drip from your wide-open mouth, the eyes begin to roll uncontrollably, the muscles spasm erratically. They're bad, oh God they're bad. They're turgid, they're incompetent, they're bland, banal and plain dumb. And yet... something keeps on drawing you towards these worthless offerings, and I think I know what it is. It is the hope that somewhere, somewhere out there resides a film that he has made that is - or could in the widest margins of the term - be described as good. A kind of grail-like video which, when found, will heal the multitudinous rifts which divide our suffering world.

Well, at the moment I am still safely trapped within the mental walls of Chapel Perilous, for Days of Hell sure ain't miraculous in any sense. A war film that contains no tension, no intelligence and no style, this is nonetheless a distinct improvement upon many of the titles in his curriculum vitae. At least his carpentry skills have improved in this one, because he manages to nail the camera down well enough that it doesn't appear to be continually toppling into the odorous quagmire that only the simple would refer to as a plot. On occasion he even has the energy to fiddle with the camera speed, thereby giving us slow motion moments that could better be described as John Woozy than John Woo.

Conrad Nichols, a walking bicep, plays the leader of a crack team of mercenaries sent into Iraq to rescue a couple of reporters. They come across several Arabian types, kill convoys of Russians (the geography is still causing me some problems so just don't ask) and break into several 'impenetrable' fortresses. When they have completed their mission they discover that they have (yawn) been set up by their own side, a twist that is somewhat compromised by the fact that the audience has been shown exactly what is going on in the very first scene. Thanks, Tonino.

There really is very little you can say of this. Nichols has all the acting ability of a piece of sellotape and looks extremely weird to boot; sort of like George Hamilton's head on Schwarzenegger's body. More experienced professionals such as Howard Ross and Werner Pocath are buried under the mediocrity of it all and Francesco De Masi - who seemed to compose for all these two bit '80s war films - offers up a score so unobtrusive it is forgotten before it begins.

There is also a horrible, snaggle toothed, moronic kid. This creature is played by 'Lawrence Richmond'. Now, if we remember that Mr. Ricci has often hidden behind the name 'Anthony Richmond' it is possible to conclude that his genes are as bad as his movies. As one character says: "This whole business stinks like a flounder".

Matt Blake