Having taken my fill of children’s movies these past months, a hasty decision was made last night to catch a political thriller.

Not paying too much attention to the film’s synopsis, I chose Vantage Point largely on the basis of what else was currently playing at our local cinema - the usual serving of one part gore, two parts under-fives, and one part teen-gross out comedy.

From the outset, Vantage Point displayed the hallmarks of a promisingly complex thriller: an unusual plot line, an indiscernible meandering path of a plot, and cliffhangers that inspired a rounded ‘ooo’ at the end of each scene.

Told – or rather viewed – from the perspective of a number of individuals, including a camcorder wielding American tourist, a secret service bodyguard, the American President, a little girl, and a handful of other characters, the story centers on the monumental signing of a document that aims to end global terror.

However, without giving too much away, things do not go according to plan, and over a twenty-three minute period an assassination bid on the President unfolds.

As the film loops through this period and the perspective of each participant is exhibited, a new piece is added to the larger mystery with each loop.

For some, this incessant re-timing of the clock was frustrating; for me, it was fascinating…

…until the movie succumbed to what is now becoming a deeply wearisome format: evil Arab terrorists versus The Indestructible American Patriots.

I will concede, for a moment I was fooled into thinking that director, Pete Travis, was pursuing another angle: set in Salamanca, Spain, I hypothesised that the group could be Basque separatists.

Alas, I was proved wrong and compelled to sit through the propagandist gloop not by any desire to get my money’s worth, but rather due to the highly comedic turns by the type-cast characters.

Dennis Quaid, as the traumatised former Presidential bodyguard Agent Barnes, exhibits less range and depth of character than a cornflake.

In fact, to gain a thorough notion of his range, below is an image that – aside from the changing milieu – is largely how Quaid looks for the majority of the movie. Turn the picture sideways for his historical jump-to-save-the-Pres moment, or crop to just the head for the duration of his car journey, and you have every possible scene covered.

His fellow agent, Kent Taylor, played by Lost‘s Matthew Fox is equally drippy. For most of the film I was anticipating the stealthy appearance of a bedraggled Kate, her magnificent blue eyes wide as she gesticulated, “Where are you going, Jack? I’m going with you…”.

The appearance of French actor, Saïd Taghmaoui, prompted a brief moment of pleasant surprise – he of La Haine fame – a moment only to be followed by abject despair as he conformed to stereotype.

From the days of cinematic yore, the Arab has been characterised by a bizarre tick that shall henceforth be acknowledged as ‘crazy eyes’.

A look that can easily be replicated in front of the bathroom mirror, it involves a tense clenching of the jaws and a widening of the eyes, which then rotate slowly in whichever direction is necessary. This is usually accompanied by a dire accent, and much head-wobbling.

As Taghmaoui submitted to the stance with great gusto and the camera zoomed in from below, a cacophony of orchestra strummed up to intensify the menace, and I choked and hacked on my cheesy puff as my once favourite actor fell from grace.

Nevertheless, there was a redeeming feature - a saving grace, if you will - in the form of Forest Whitaker, as the benign, bumbling innocent abroad, Howard Lewis.

Whitaker was like an invigorated human-being amidst a sea of movable mannequins: as Taghmaoui gurned, Fox played Jack, and Quaid struggled with facial expressions, Whitaker was a sight to behold and made one long to furnish him with a hot water bottle and as many cups of tea and biscuits as is humanely possible.

In short, he was pretty darn marvellous.

The opposite of marvellous was the rest of the film.

For a start, the issue of language rendered me in a state of utter bewilderment: the Spanish spoke Spanish and viewers were duly supplied with subtitles; the Americans spoke English, except for when they were talking to the Arabs, in which case they spoke Spanish; the Arabs spoke and text each other in English, and then feigned muteness when with the Americans – possibly because the Americans insisted on practicing Espagnol 101 in their presence.

Secondly, we, the audience, never discover who or what the organisation is throughout the movie. According to brief snippets of ill-calculated nonsense compiled by the tea-boy on set, the group “is affiliated to the Mujaheddin in Afghanistan via Morocco and Beirut”.

It’s as though tea-boy just opened his Rough Guide to the Middle East and stuck three pins in the map while blind-folded.

Okay, okay, so it is just a movie, but would the actors turn into pillars of salt if an Arabic word or ten was spoken? And please, Hollywood, fork out on an advisory specialist on the region and its turmoil, because your blatant ignorance is killing us.

With laughter.

Lastly, the seeming indestructibility of Quaid’s tiny car – hijacked from a Spanish driver – holds a secret that I am positive James Bond is torturing out of a SEAT engineer as we speak, while his dry-cleaner must set his clothes with varnish to achieve that never-worn look, despite innumerable bombings, car wrecks, and shootings.

He really is the Teflon-man.

The bile-inducing ending nestles the cherry on top of the steaming turd, and as I wiped my tears of laughter from my eyes as we exited, I could not rejoice in the unanticipated comedy of the evening entirely, as the movie had started off absolutely brilliantly.

A novel concept, propaganda aside, Vantage Point is a good thriller. Or could have been.

Toot rating: 2/5