Guy Ritchie’s fall from grace will precipitate the most dramatic film lynching of the year. Back-to-back disasters have shattered the director’s credibility. Swept Away — a desert island romance starring Madonna — was laughed off the beach. And Revolver — heavily flagged as his return to brutal form — was greeted with frozen silence at the press screening.

The film doesn’t make any sense. It is a stodgy, expensive revenge movie with a pompous belief in its own brilliance. The arrogance could cost Ritchie his Hollywood career.

Revolver’s only claim to fame is whether it’s first, second, or third on the podium for the most pretentious gangster film yet made. I’m quite happy to crucify the movie — it deserves it. What makes me uneasy is the temptation to bury the man as well.

Ritchie re-invented the gangland genre for cool Britannia with Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, and then trumped the sceptics with his thrilling sequel, Snatch. But the industry is cruel and fickle. The desire to experiment has cost Ritchie dear. Revolver is a worthy attempt to elevate the gangster flick to a new level, but the painful truth is that there’s nothing here but hot air. Great con movies are only as good as the script. They are impossible to fake. Jason Statham’s greasy bad boy, Jake Green, cracks this priceless secret in Revolver but there isn’t a single scene in Ritchie’s script where his voice-over thoughts ring true.

Seven years in solitary confinement have turned him into a chess freak and a Mastermind contender for useless historical facts. He is more interested in Julius Caesar than the fruits of crime. Nevertheless, since his release from prison, Jake has won a fortune and found the keys to a barn full of cocaine. To his credit Statham is starting to look less like the guest thug on EastEnders and more like the real deal. He has lank, shoulder-length hair, and choppy stubble. His hoarse, whispery voice colours every twist in the narrative.

Jake wants to skewer a casino shark called Dorothy. There are three essential facts to note about Ray Liotta’s kinky performance as Dorothy: he wears heavy black eyeliner; he issues death threats in the nude, and he cries when his personal space is invaded. He is also the closest we get to light entertainment in a film starved of wit and sex.

The film implodes when Statham is inexplicably hijacked by two spooky loan sharks (Vincent Pastore and André Benjamin) who inform him that he will die of a rare blood disease in precisely three days. They take his money, torture him and generally treat him like a toe-rag. Don’t ask why. The answers aren’t worth it.

When a film sets out to confuse, you can be damn sure it has precious little to hide.

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