The violence is idiotic and brutal (the story is just idiotic), but it's also so noncommittal that it doesn't offend. Like the filmmaking itself, the violence has no passion, no oomph, no sense of real or even feigned purpose.
The actual plot is so uselessly convoluted you'd get a headache just reading it -- but you might want to pull out the Advil anyway, given Ritchie's reliance on flashy editing, a blasting soundtrack and fetishized gunplay.
A handsome ensemble of blokes and one high-heeled accountant who propel this slam-bang romp about the collision of criminal styles in the age of globalization and real estate speculation.
If RocknRolla clings to the company of ne'er-do-wells, it's not because they bristle with the frustrations of society, but purely because Ritchie wants to borrow their cheeky charm -- a virtue that, in reality, none of them possess.
RocknRolla isn't as jammed with visual pyrotechnics as Ritchie's Lock, Stock and Smoking Barrel (1998), but that's OK, because with anything more happening, the movie could induce motion sickness.
Ritchie, who shoots and cuts everything in RocknRolla like an ad for a particularly greasy brand of fragrance for men, delivers the beatings and killings in his trademark atmosphere of morally weightless flash.