If you caught last week’s Sunday Club review of Bastille Day you’ll have noticed a rare discrepancy with regards to Matthew and Ashley’s conflicting views of Idris Elba.
Ashley, being the East London born and bred market trader that he is, is somewhat fond of Hollywood’s most malleable and down to earth British import. Matthew however, as a rural minded simpleton from the white washed climes of declining seaside bastion Great Yarmouth, thinks he’s a bit bog standard and something of a pest on account of him basically picking up a paycheck from any and every evil corporation looking for a friendly faced sponsor: whether it be the Post Office, a broadband deal or a high tech military issue landmine designed to shred the shin bones of your children, good old Idris will probably sell it to you with a cheeky wink and an everyman smile whilst double parking his brand new Rolls on the writhing mess of what’s left of your youngest.
One thing they did however agree on last week were Ashley’s chants to “bring back Pierce Brosnan” so this week that’s exactly what we’re doing! Urge is a 2016 straight to DVD number with a half decent looking cover and (more crucially) the first thing we could find on a reliable torrent bearing the great man’s name.
Matthew Says: If you were to look up louche in an antiquarian dictionary you might expect to find the definition “Disreputable or sordid in a rakish or appealing way.” If you look up the definition of louche in a dictionary printed on or after the date of May 16th 1953 you will instead find a beautifully hand rendered etching of Pierce Brendan Brosnan (OBE) clad in deliciously fitted soft linen suit fingering one of your female family members at a summer fete, charity ball and / or gala luncheon.
Nothing oozes quite the same delicately honeyed balance of charm, smarm and sleaze as a prime rump of a Pierce Brosnan performance. Whether it be his grizzled yet tender portrayal of washed up hitman in The Matador, hitting every note other than the one he’s trying to sing in Mamma Mia or any of his myriad Bond performances all are carried with an airy sense of style, a little dash of sleaze and a cheeky wink to camera.
With all that in mind I was a little dismayed to find Urge kicked off by introducing us to a barrage of characters decidedly lacking in the Pierce Brosnan department: Neal is an arrogant, self-obsessed arsehole multi-millionaire (Danny Masterson), Theresa is his arrogant, career obsessed and vacuous assistant (Ashley Green), Jason is his vacuous, indulgent and ruddlerless younger brother (Justin Chatwin) and there’s also a bunch of other skeletal no-marks whose characters both look and read like a pamphlet on every disorder and hang-up currently eating away at the minds and bank accounts of the millennial generation in the western world. Thus far these people are, in essence, a cross section of everything wrong with my generation in 2017.
Basically one scene in I already hope everyone dies.
Anyway we learn that this unlikeable crew of hopelessly rich bankers and wankers are off for a weekend getaway at Neal’s million-dollar beach house on an isolated island town that I don’t think the script writers could even be arsed to remember the name of… To ballpark how grating everything thus far is I’m basically watching Entourage 2.
Please note that I’ve never actually watched the Entourage film as the trailer alone was enough to make me physically vomit on (my non-designer) trainers.
After a couple of stupendously lazy attempts at character development the team head to the only club on the island. A big pair of eyes projected on the side of said club stare at them like the disembodied spirit of Stringfellow before letting them in, regardless of the fact they pushed in front of the whole queue. Then again I suppose the rules are different when you shit twenties and light your met-elite farts with fives.
Where the blazes is Brosnan at this point? Hopefully finishing up his latest M&S loungewear catalogue shoot. Surely he can bring a bit of a touch class to proceedings?
Apparently he’s not in this fucking club. Instead we’re treated to multiple speed ramped (because obviously you can’t have a “cool” film in 2017 without a speed ramp) shots of women dancing and blokes shouting “shots.” It’s basically a Lil Jon & The Eastside Boyz video stuffed with failed Edinburgh Fringe performers and white privilege (possibly the same thing) instead of crunk juice and Chris Rock cameos.
Come on Pierce suit up mate; the Sunday Club need you.
In a semi-fourth wall shift of sorts The Red Bastard appears playing himself (at least he’s a successful Edinburgh Fringe performer I guess) and ushers Jason, possibly the most hateable of the crew, to meet “The Owner” and fuck me if it’s not Pierce Brosnan bang on time in a cream linen suit chuffing a vape pen(?)! Oh yes.
Basically Brosnan’s first scene highlights not only how completely weak and unlikeable every other actor’s performance in this vapid dogshit is but also that he’s still completely capable of getting involved in a lazy paycheck powered picture and, with a wry wink and nod to camera, remind you that you can’t really hate him because he’s knows its total dogshit too. Take note Idris Elba: This is how a cynical cash grab is done properly! Effortless class.
Brosnan, clearly having a post-modern ball, gives the kids some designer drugs called Urge. He warns them to only ever, EVER take them once and then sadly disappears into the ether / vape smoke once more; presumably he had a photoshoot for some gaudy Dubai based wristwatch company.
The kids promptly do ALL the drugs and have an EPIC night. There’s some supercuts of tits and gyration, the entire of Salma Hayek’s classic dance sequence in From Dusk Til Dawn gets ripped off and we then cut to next morning with everyone nursing hangovers and still using the word epic extensively.
Cut a long story short they all ignore Pierce’s warnings, do another load of Urge (which apparently materialises out of thin air) and head back to the Stringfellow’s Island for another (presumably epic) knees up.
From here the film unfolds with increasing levels of nastiness as, on second dose, the drug apparently unleashes your deepest, darkest urges (see what they did there?) instead of your utopic fantasies. I’m assuming that’s the logic anyway as literally fuck all gets explained unless you count speed ramped shots of people doing shots as visual narrative…
The team do yet more Urge and things plunge deeper and deeper into chaos. One of Team Wanker starts indulging in S&M with another (GASP), one starts a Bumfights style tournament to the death with other party goers (GULP) and one accidentally kills himself in the gym after someone cracks a joke about his history of being overweight (PORK). This has basically gone from a Hollyoaks Later episode to one of those scaremongering pamphlets from the seventies about the dangers of amphetamines.
If anyone involved in this picture (other than Pierce) was even vaguely sympathetic and not just a total Tory fuckwit this may have been a wry look at the human condition for a displaced generation struggling to find their place in a post-Baby Boomer, property price spiking world… Instead it’s closer to a gore-free Hostel with a branded content deal from Hollister.
Inexplicably one of these feckless tarts isn’t affected by the power of Urge. There’s a blink and you’ll miss it moment where someone implies the reason he doesn’t feel the effects is because he’s already so indulgent but, by the time the film has ramped up to its ridiculous third act, this already less than solid explanation is more or less totally flaccid. There’s another of the vacuous bunch who we’re apparently supposed to root for on account of her not liking spoilt rich bitches who is also inexplicably immune to the power of Urge… Confusingly though she does throw a Paris Hilton-alike through a screen door and fuck a birthday cake so again, I’m not quite sure about the rules of this world.
Basically the whole thing is so badly written and the characters so unlikeable that by the time the madness unfolds you just won’t care.
There is, however, one of the most ridiculously brilliant (but completely nonsensensical) final scenes in history in which our darling Brosnan turns up one last time for one of the most amped up and indulgent monologues ever about creationism and Hell and Heaven and… I dunno it makes fuck all sense but at least we get to see a man that can piss more charisma after a stout fuelled afternoon alone in the pub than the rest of these Ryvita could collectively generate across a forty year career.
In essence this could have been a fun little splash of drug fuelled rumpy pumpy for the straight to DVD market in the vein of something like Shrooms (which was again a nice idea poorly executed) or, with the right filmmakers attached, a biting B-movie satire of the current state of the western world set against a surrealist island backdrop shot through the kaleidoscopic lens of psychedelic party bags. Think maybe They Live mixed with a cocktail umbrella and a splash of Island Of Dr Moreau.
Instead it’s basically a bunch of pissed up uni students shouting “EPIC” and bumping lines whilst watching a dolphin die in the shallows just outside the marina in which their parent’s private yacht is moored.
Come on Pierce. You can do better.
ASHLEY SAYS:: We’re back with another B-Movie banger. This week it’s the new Pierce Brosnan special ‘Urge’ – Please note, I am Brosnan’s biggest fan: none of these Netflix Original mega-budget mega-series have anything on ‘Remington Steele’ and can you even imagine a ‘Thomas Crown’ affair remake without Pierce in the starring role?
I’m so excited. – Needless to say, I may be a little biased.
The opening credits role with latex covered ladies dancing around on the floor to music, like a James Bond themed porno. Think of those well good Arca music videos albeit shot on a Motorola Razr with a cracked screen and half the budget.
The overarching theme of this movie is twats on tour as a gang of 30 something Rothschild money IT company CEOs are ready to go on a jet-set minibreak to some remote island in the US, staying in the same sort of sterile, wanky home that Ja Rule and Ashanti rented out for the ‘Always on Time’ music video.
First they must wait on their other twat-bag mate as he pisses all over a meeting with what may have been a multi-million dollar client by flying a toy helicopter around the room and being an unprofessional dim-wit (clearly nepotism got him this job). Meeting ruined he convinces his saucy secretary to come with him on the holiday, presumably with the intention of adding sexual harassment to his CV. She begrudgingly agrees to his pathetic offer.
At the island, they meet up with a friend who they all allegedly dislike, but obviously the snide bastards won’t say it to his face. There’s a slew of “bro” chatter with endless references to how well off they are and how much they enjoy spending cash with gay abandon.
Lets just gloss over that section of mind numbing waffle as I am dying to see Pierce Brosnan.
Night descends and Team Tosser head down to the local night spot which has a door policy almost as bad as the Berghain. They have more trouble getting into the club than N.O.R.E’s driver in the video to ‘Nothin’’.
Somehow they get in through some convoluted eye-balling entry system on a WWE Titantron: a system which would never work in the real world.
The club has so much space it would be a well good venue but it looks like they turned up to the Fiesta Del Agua party at Es Paradis in Ibiza as literally nothing looks enjoyable here. No amount of drugs can make this any good surely?
Assumedly this must be the first time these rich kids of Instagram have ever been out of the house as they keep commentating on how great their night has been. It’s been so good that I’m expecting the music to switch to Black Eyed Peas’ ‘I Gotta Feeling’ but instead they continue to play EDX’s greatest hits.
We finally get to meet Brosnan after the ever so slightly less rich kid (his comparative lack of wealth seems so unworthy of documenting it’s basically like when Kate Middleton married Prince William) gets summonsed to the office by a creepy guy in a balloon outfit. Thankfully Pierce does not disappoint: he’s decked out in a fantastic champagne coloured suit with rose tinted sunglasses.
They’ve decided to call Pierce’s character Daemon Sloane (Seriously).
The magnanimous man mountain (Pierce) gives some confusing advice to our unlikeable super rich stranger who probably only agreed to meet him under the pretence they he could have some pills and maybe a line of ket together. Instead Pierce sorts them some “urge.”
This ‘51st state’ style drug is meant to make you lose all your inhibitions and do stuff you wouldn’t normally do and end up feeling fine the next day. They do it and if I’m honest, the affects are tame. They could have got more interesting people to get off their nut.
I’ve done more bizarre stuff than this at karaoke night down the Leytonstone O’Neill’s.
They’re just dancing in slow motion like a pack of Boohoo models waiting for direction.
Seriously, seeing these twats on Urge is worse than seeing Zak Efron on PCP in ‘We Are Your Friends’.
The next day they wake up fresh as daisies, ready to do Urge again, despite being under strict instructions not to. “You guys are gonna be the death of me” says the slightly less wealthy one… whatever will happen next?
They reach into the case, which they somehow didn’t lose at the club despite being completely out of their respective trees and do more Urge. This time it works too well and they all find themselves in separate sticky situations, unsure how they got there and with no idea how to sort their shit out.
It’s like a half arsed depiction of the 7 deadly sins but the director gave up after the first 4. I am quite happy at the prospect of everyone dying though.
The morning after the night before and the slightly less wealthy one realised the island is all on drugs. In real life this would just be Ibiza but in the movies, drugs are bad and they make you die instantly. Twice.
Apparently Urge is almost as bad as when lesser know Wu-Tang affiliate Christ Bearer did PCP.
The movie then inexplicably takes a hairpin turn from thriller to a Horror channel zombie flick. Seriously, it took about 70 minutes to turn into a horror movie. The premise of this whole film reads like a piece of E grade A-Level philosophy coursework (please see me)
Nearing the end now and Brosnan is back with more pseudo-philosophical claptrap which makes absolutely no sense. – That said, he executes it with perfect delivery and is now donning a decadent near Royal Blue seaman’s coat which really bring out his eyes. We also find in this scene that he has a magical power, which allows him to show people the future in positively ghastly CGI. It’s like watching someone print wingdings on a dot matrix printer.
It ends really abruptly and the most unsettling thing is that it has left itself open for a sequel. I don’t have much to say about this movie except, if you were ever thinking of going to Es Paradis this summer, here’s why you should rethink that decision; they probably have Urge there now too.
The movie desperately needed more Brosnan. Three scenes was definitely not enough. I haven’t touched on the over sexualised undertone so as not to give anything away for any fools looking to watch this film, but it’s basically like this director had never done drugs or been clubbing or had sex or directed a movie.
Now off to watch all 5 seasons of Remington Steele.
Catch Matthew & Ashley on Twitter wishing Pierce Brosnan would retweet them::
Matthew – @BurmaShave_
Ashley – @OnlyAshley