CheerupSilver Very Cool!!!

Salubfoto It's an amazing and heartbreaking story.

Janae Milner Easily the biggest piece of Right wing non sense propaganda I ever saw.

Sarita Rafferty There are moments that feel comical, some horrific, and some downright inspiring but the tonal shifts hardly matter as the end results come to a film that's perfect for this time.

Paul Magne Haakonsen I bought this movie solely because of Clive Owen being in it. However, this movie was a swing and a miss, and not even Owen could manage to salvage the pieces of this wreck of a movie.This is essentially a revenge movie, but not a good one, to be bluntly honest.The story is about Will, a former criminal now on the virtuous path to righteousness and a life free of crime. But when his brother is found dead under dire circumstances, Will sheds his newfound life and returns to his former dark past, seeking vengeance upon those whom wronged his brother.The concept idea seems fairly adequate, although generic and something that has been seen numerous times before. However, director Mike Hodges just managed to steer this movie off course and turn it into a very flaccid experience of a movie.The acting was adequate, although the actors and actresses very limited by the script, and it was showing on the screen.And the slow progress of the storyline also really hindered the movie to the point where it was becoming a drag to sit through. And I must admit that I was close to fully giving up on the movie twice, but I managed to stick with it to the very end.Clive Owen couldn't save the movie, nor could Malcolm McDowell.I was bored senseless with "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead", and as such, then this movie scores a meager three out of ten stars.

NateWatchesCoolMovies If one looks at each British gangster film as a cup of tea, Mike Hodges's I'll Sleep When I'm Dead is the stale leaves left at the bottom, void of any kind of robustness. I don't mean that in a bad way, as it's a very well made film, but it's also bleak, bitter and populated by characters whose lives have derailed into ditches branching off from what their lives used to be. A shaggy, unkempt Clive Owen plays Will Graham, a former gangster who has relegated himself into obscurity, dwelling in a caravan situated in a rural forest, and peeing into milk jugs. For whatever reason, he's a ghost of his former self and would have it remain that way. Life (and the necessities of plot) has a funny way of turning plans on their head, though. Will has a brash, cocky younger brother (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), an upstart hoodlum who peddles pharmaceuticals at shitty nite clubs and fancies himself top dog. One night he's kidnapped, sodomizes (yes you read that right) and set free, after which, consumed by the trauma, he takes his own life. The perpetrator is a shady automobile tycoon named Boad (Malcolm McDowell) whose reasons for such a nasty and frankly odd act aren't revealed till the third act. Will forced out of recluse and heads to London to rendezvous with his former pal (Jamie Foreman) as well as an old acquaintance (Charlotte Rampling). Owen brings a tired, worn out presence that sometimes flares up with the violent resolve his character no doubt used to have. McDowell steals the show in a role that's really a tough one to get your head around, for both audience and actor. He's actor twisted guy who has committed a heinous act, and Malcolm is kind of a go to guy for creeps and villains. And yet.. in the blistering final confrontation, he lucidly lays down his logic with unnerving gravitas, sticking it to anyone that was expecting his performance to fall back on perverse theatrics (this ain't no clockwork orange). It's and wonderful final scene given the time to breathe and play out before the inevitable violence happens. As far as crime films go, this one trades in energy and attitude for a frayed narrative in which the lines of good and evil are slightly maimed to shed light on humans with the capacity for both in equal measures, and often all at once.

dmille The shot of Clive Owens clean shaven and dressed to the nines makes me wish they'd dump Daniel Craig and cast Owens as Bond. The scene between Owen and Malcolm McDowell was fantastic. When Owens turned around at the end of the driveway and came back to finish McDowell...wow! McDowell showed just enough relief and relaxation to make the kill shot payoff.On the other hand, Charlote Rampling is still a very good looking woman. But she is 18 years older than Owens. They didn't go deep enough into the backstory of their relationship. How did they end up together and why did they breakup? And the ending was too ambiguous. Do they both end up dead at the hands of that hit-man?

ianlouisiana There's this bloke lives in a van parked down our road.Might be some sort of pikey I suppose, but he looks as if he's been a bit tasty in his time....................... Former gang boss turned tree - hugger Mr C.Owen returns to his roots. "I'll sleep when I'm dead" is yet another attempt at the elusive noir genre that we Brits are so bad at.So many well 'ard geezers threatening each other with a bit of GBH before going home to be good to their dear old mums,dark London alleyways,big-time crims in flash drums.....I mean,come on,we've seen it all before.Even the presence of a relative of a notorious London villain can't prevent this load of tosh disappearing up the double barrels of its own shotgun. And it's set in Brixton,spiritual home of London's Gangstas from where I venture to suggest Mr Owen would have been sent packing very early on in his career. The "modern" storyline where old - time villain Mr M. McDowell punishes an annoying young rival by buggering him borders on the - to say the least - unlikely,a desperate attempt by the makers to add a spin to the well - trodden path of the revenge movie. Miss C.Rampling appears for no good reason that I could ascertain,and awaits her fate like Burt Lancaster in "The Killers",the only ground this movie has in common with that masterpiece. With so many terrible British crimflicks already in the marketplace,"I'll sleep when I'm dead" deserves to disappear in the hell reserved for the works of the Guy Ritchie school of Frankie Fraser wannabes whose sycophancy towards psychopathic criminals is as nuaseating as it is risible.