Daniel Radcliffe has, we can now all agree, performed the movie double magic trick. A feat performed by very few, most notably Jodie Foster.
He has escaped being known only as a child actor, and has escaped being known only as one of the most famous characters of the last 50 years.
Yes, he’s a proper actor now. Even managing to exist with Elijah Wood still active too. Although, actually, he’s done the escaping thing too, hasn’t he? Shit.
Anyway, as Allen Ginsberg, Radcliffe is as at the apex of crediblity. Slap bang in the 50s, in an art film, about the Beats. It could, and should, be awful.
It isn’t. This is a really well thought out and well put together, mostly true telling of Kerouac, Cassidy, Ginsberg, Burroughs coming together. Centered around the oft retold true story of the murder of one of their friends by another, it’s about lust, obsession, discovery and awakening.
Radcliffe’s Ginsberg is desperate for intellectualism, happy to be swept up by those he admires, and desperate to be hauled out of the closet. All of which duly happens, including a very frank deflowering of Radcliffe which will dispell ANY lingering thoughts of Harry Potter.
It’s paced, acted and shot wonderfully and smart enough to be interesting and gripping, with disappearing up its own arse.
Solid work from all, but especially Radcliffe who is, it seems, an actor.