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BRIAN VINER reviews Black Bag: This spy thriller is just too clever for its own good
On the last day of Cheltenham, here's an equine expression to describe, or rather not describe, director Steven Soderbergh: the prolific fellow is anything but a one-trick pony.
This film is rooted in the present day, with a bellicose Russia as the enemy and British spycraft led by drone, satellite and AI technology, yet there is a retro vibe that whisks us all the way back to the Sixties, propelled by a jazzy percussive soundtrack. Early on, in a bid to flush out the traitor, George invites everyone to dinner at his and Kathryn's sumptuous London home (remuneration for spies has evidently shot up since Harry Palmer's bedsit days) and laces the chana masala with a truth drug. His real name is Alfred Moretti and he disappeared from public view 30 years ago, but suddenly the seismic news breaks that he has made another album and is inviting a select band of journalists and industry folk to hear it at his secluded desert home, where they can also indulge his messiah complex.
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