Infer­no

Run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, talk, talk, talk, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, talk, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, talk, talk, run, run, run, run, run, explo­sion, wipe brow, repeat. And that’s Infer­no.

It’s peo­ple, run­ning. And then stop­ping. And then talk­ing. And then they run some­where else. And then they talk some more. And then… Then, they run. It makes Nation­al Trea­sure look like a nuanced work of rad­i­cal nar­ra­tive sophis­ti­ca­tion. If you excised all the shots of peo­ple run­ning in Ron Howard’s Infer­no, the film’s entire run time would amount to rough­ly four min­utes. If there’s ever any doubt, or there’s even the mildest inkling that a scene needs a swift kick up the der­rière, the char­ac­ters instant­ly remem­ber that they need to run somewhere.

What’s most galling about a film which con­tains so much run­ning is that it’s all filmed in the most bor­ing way imag­in­able: fast cut medi­um shots and lit­tle-to-no vari­a­tion. There’s also no sense of geog­ra­phy, with Tom Han­ks’ world famous cryp­tog­ra­ph­er Robert Lang­don seem­ing­ly able to tele­port between loca­tions. One minute he and child prodi­gy, Dante schol­ar and med­ical whizz Sien­na Brooks (Felic­i­ty Jones) will be mak­ing a mad dash through an orna­men­tal gar­den. The next, they’ll be seen pok­ing out of a door­way and enter­ing into a plush gallery. It’s not that we need to be shown exact­ly how they get from one place to the next, but there are sure­ly sim­ple stag­ing tech­niques which help to com­mu­ni­cate where peo­ple are in rela­tion to oth­er peo­ple and places. Dra­ma? Anyone?

Run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run… What is Han­ks doing in this? This is total­ly beneath him. He’s a fine actor, one you draft in when you need the screen filled floor to ceil­ing with nat­ur­al charis­ma, and his char­ac­ter here offers no oppor­tu­ni­ty for that. He’s too busy run­ning, or spout­ing Wiki bombs while stand­ing in var­i­ous Euro­pean tourist hotspots. But as sure as Dan Brown is punch­ing out tawdry pot­boil­ers, Han­ks will be required to get his run­ning shoes on. Robert Lang­don is an awful dullard. You can imag­ine him being a real stick-in-the-mud at fac­ul­ty meet­ings, or the kind of pompous ass you’d go out of your way to avoid invit­ing to a drinks soirée. You’re try­ing to have a light chat about Bake Off, and he’s blath­er­ing on about Botticelli.

But back to the run­ning for a moment. The run­ning in Infer­no is all at the ser­vice of sav­ing the world from a new plague that will infect 95 per cent of the pop­u­la­tion in six to sev­en days. To be frank, the pair don’t run with an urgency reflec­tive of that sit­u­a­tion. It’s more of a work­horse can­ter than a des­per­ate sprint. And nei­ther get out of breath. When their run­ning stint comes to an end and they’ve sneak­i­ly evad­ed their cap­tors once more (blast­ed secret doors every time!), they launch direct­ly into their join-the-dots art cri­tique sleuthing. No clutch­ing of the chest. No sip­ping water. No human fac­tor. This is unfil­tered, dizzy-head­ed tedi­um based on mate­r­i­al riv­en with plot holes the size of a lux­u­ry hotel in Dubai. But if you like see­ing peo­ple run…