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Movie Review: Eastern Promises

Once you get past all the rape, throat-slitting, and the Yakov Smirnoff-quality accents, Eastern Promises is undoubtedly the feel-good Russian Mafia movie of the year. I won’t spoil the ending, but I left the theatre irradiating sublime optimism, however conflicted.

Oh, I jest. I like David Cronenberg. Despite his preoccupation with horrific violence, I feel safe watching his movies, because he may be graphic, but never gratuitous. Every gush of gore, every discharge of blood, every dismemberment happens for a very good reason.

Eastern Promises is a thoroughly delightful tale about a London midwife (Naomi Watts) who delivers the baby of a drug-addicted 14-year old Russian prostitute who dies in childbirth. In a quest to learn more about the baby’s mother, Naomi steals her diary and sets out to have it translated by a kindly Russian grandfather who turns out to be the depraved head of the organized crime family. Along the way, she makes eyes at the irresistable Viggo Mortenson, a driver for the mafia head’s berserk son.

Yeah, it sounds unbelievable, and one would imagine the audience in the movie theatre staring incredulously at the screen, but such is David Cronenberg’s skill that the story is intelligent, plausible, and efficient. Looking back on it now, it feels like entertaining sophistry.

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