**/****
starring Ben Kingsley, Jim Sturgess, Kevin Zegers, Rose McGowan
written and directed by Kari Skogland
by Jefferson Robbins You're watching the wrong guy if you keep your eye on Martin McGartland (Jim Sturgess), a Special Branch mole in the Belfast IRA circa 1988. The one to mark in Fifty Dead Men Walking is his handler, codenamed "Fergus" and played by Ben Kingsley under a hairpiece that makes him look astonishingly like Ben Gazzara. As he transitions from mere manipulation of his charge to fatherly love, Fergus reveals himself to be the only character made valid by the script and fully fleshed out by the performer. Inspired by, but not based on, McGartland's memoir of the same name, Kari Skogland's film packs a history lesson on the Troubles into its opening act, then expects us to bond with a hero whose only personality trait is a lack of political conviction. Sturgess's McGartland is a Catholic hood with no love for the IRA, the Ulster Unionists, or the British peacekeepers in his divided city; "I don't have opinions" is his only self-disclosing line of dialogue. Fergus keys in on that alienation and grooms McGartland as an infiltrator, but the latter's turn towards informant is unbelievable, despite his stated desire to save lives. And who can tell why he rises so easily in the IRA hierarchy, treated as he is like a foster son by a high-ranking commander (Tom Collins)? He gets asked a few times if he's bucking for sainthood, and it's the only reasonable answer. (Consider his rebuff of flame-haired Volunteer captain Grace (Rose McGowan), who's strictly there to give family man Martin some temptation to deny.) Music-wise, any film that starts off with a blast of Stiff Little Fingers' "Alternative Ulster" is jockeying for my respect, but Ben Mink's score is The Edge minus the atmosphere. Skogland has some effective visual tricks–note how often characters are separated by ancient, broken walls–but her ace is Kingsley, who can carry off the clunkiest dialogue ("The hunters become the hunted," "The price of a conscience is death") and finds leeway in small moments that make his Fergus a human rather than a type. We thought we'd lost you, Sir Ben, somewhere between BloodRayne and The Love Guru. Well met. Nice hair.
