Alfie

A corrosive portrait of a misogynist getting his comeuppance, Alfie is a minor late-60s work anchored by a wonderful Michael Caine performance. Caine gives a layered, complex performance that finds Alfie’s toxic masculinity, unwarranted arrogance, and gross sexism smothering a deep insecurity and contradictory fourth-wall breaking justifications. He is infinitely better than the rest of this hedonistic glimpse of Swinging London.

Perhaps it’s because our main character is so nearly off-putting that I couldn’t embrace Alfie. It’s hard to care about a narrative when the main character is so nearly without redeeming qualities to counterbalance. It becomes an exercise in endurance of one man’s bad behavior and his seemingly unwillingness or purposeful blindness to the damage he’s left behind. You may find it an emotionally engaging experience, but I found it occasionally tiresome.

What’s it all about, Alfie? A broken man burning through women and a health scare to learn to not be a selfish dick. I’ve had about enough of these stories and there’s just not enough charm to Alfie, aside from strong acting, to make me engage with it. I get why Caine’s cockney Don Juan launched him into super-stardom, though. His work really is that good.