dir. Michael Flatley
It is near-impossible to sum up the plot of Blackbird, primarily because it doesn’t really have one. Our protagonist Victor Blackley (Michael Flatley) runs a luxury resort in the Caribbean. The prologue and ensuing erratic split-second flashbacks indicate he’s tortured by the memory of failing to save his wife from being murdered by… terrorists? Arms dealers? Some sort of mad jungle cult? It’s never really clear. Blackley now spends his days staring listlessly into middle-distance while scantily-clad women half his age hurl themselves against him. This is but one of many blatant signs that this movie – directed by, written by, produced by, and starring Flatley – is little beyond a shameless vanity project. Unfortunately this means Flatley carried out his vision unfettered, complete with hackneyed dialogue (the Riverdance alumnus saw fit to kick off a climactic shooting spree by having Blackley mutter, “Shall we dance?”) and pathetic attempts to emulate Bond through non-sequitur torture scenes and “high-stakes” poker games. Every single attempt at intrigue or intensity falls devastatingly flat, and in the end, Blackbird is but a thinly-drawn fantasy of what a spy thriller should look like. It proves with no room for doubt that Flatley should have stuck to actual dance.
BMDb 