Havoc Review: Gareth Evans’ Brutal Ballet

Havoc plunges us into an unnamed city where rain never ceases and danger lurks around every neon-lit corner. During one violent Christmas Eve, Gareth Evans returns to the world of uncompromising action, trading the claustrophobic apartment tower of The Raid for a sprawling urban battlefield.

At its center is Walker (Tom Hardy), a detective whose badge feels heavier than his conscience. He’s paired with Ellie (Jessie Mei Li), a beat cop whose idealism clashes with his war-weary pragmatism. Their mission—rescuing Charlie (Justin Cornwell) and Mia (Quelin Sepulveda), two civilians caught in a botched triad operation—serves as both catalyst and excuse for an escalating chain of set pieces.

Evans cloaks the story in classic noir trappings: slick reflections on wet pavement, long shadows, and whispery voice-over that hints at regret and shattered morality. Yet the film refuses to stay in one stylistic lane, weaving sudden bursts of slow-motion brutality with guerrilla-style camerawork.

This review will unpack how Havoc manipulates its narrative architecture, examine the film’s role as a mirror to our appetite for spectacle, and celebrate the craft—cinematography, editing, sound—that transforms raw violence into a cinematic pulse.

Narrative as a Rain-Soaked Jazz Score

Evans opens with Walker’s husky voice-over, confessing shortcuts he took as a detective. We catch only fleeting glimpses of his wife and daughter—ghostly images that hover behind every hail of bullets. It’s a clever move, like a muted trumpet in a smoky club: you sense the melody, even when it’s buried beneath the chaos.

The inciting incident arrives in a burst of kinetic energy. A semitrailer packed with washing machines—each one concealing bricks of cocaine—careens through city streets. Charlie and Mia, two ordinary faces thrust into extraordinary danger, become avatars for every person caught in a system they barely understand. Their panic is palpable, a counterpoint to Walker’s weary determination.

As the night unfolds, crooked cops Vincent and Forest Whitaker’s Beaumont form one axis of tension; from the opposite corner, Clarice Fong’s triad matriarch marshals her vengeance. Ellie’s storyline threads through these dueling forces, her notebook and flashlight cutting through the darkness much like Truffaut’s jump cuts disrupt a scene’s rhythm. Walker, meanwhile, juggles his fixer duties against an emerging conscience—his every choice adding another layer of dissonance.

The nightclub sequence feels like free jazz taken to extremes: multiple factions riffing off each other in a dizzying montage, bodies tumbling in sudden crescendos of violence. Later, the final siege at Walker’s lakeside cabin slows to a deliberate tempo, each shot echoing like footsteps on wet gravel.

Evans paces the film with subtle syncopation. Moments of chaotic action give way to brief respites—Ellie catching her breath in an alley or Walker’s flashbacks replaying his darkest mistake. These interludes allow us to register the human cost beneath the spectacle.

Despite the whirlwind of set pieces, character motivations remain clear. Walker’s guilt, Ellie’s idealism, Mia’s fight for survival and Vincent’s self-preservation all align into a coherent through-line. It’s a high-octane structure, but one that never loses its narrative thread—even when the bullets fly in slo-mo.

Character Cadence Amid the Chaos

Tom Hardy’s Walker moves through Havoc like a saxophonist riffing in a dark club—every glance and muttered line carrying weight. Hardy leans into the character’s physicality: the slump of his shoulders, the tight curl of his fist. In a fleeting scene, he cradles a photograph of his daughter, and Hardy’s eyes crack just enough to hint at paternal regret. It reminded me of Godard’s practice of letting small gestures speak volumes, turning an action thriller into a study of inner turmoil.

Jessie Mei Li’s Ellie arrives on screen with textbook rookie jitters—then shatters them under gunfire. In one alleyway stand-off, she improvises with a discarded pipe, her breathing and quick cuts in the editing framing her as a resourceful foil to Walker’s cynicism. By the final act, she’s shed her liability tag and becomes the film’s moral compass—a trajectory that echoes Truffaut’s young heroines who learn to navigate their worlds on instinct.

Timothy Olyphant plays Vincent as if channeling a Raymond Chandler villain with a wry smile twisted into menace. His dynamic with Forest Whitaker’s Beaumont sparks off like a duet: Olyphant’s lean brand of menace counterpoints Whitaker’s polished veneer. Whitaker strides through fundraiser crowds with actorly ease, then switches to calculating predator in a heartbeat—each code-switch highlighted by the camera’s tight framing.

Charlie’s privilege comes across in Justin Cornwell’s posture—arms often crossed, eyes flicking for escape—while Quelin Sepulveda’s Mia stands grounded, every expression conveying her will to survive. In silent close-ups, Sepulveda channels the wordless empathy found in early Jean Renoir landscapes: vulnerability welded to determination.

Yeo Yann Yann’s Clarice Fong brings crystalline focus to grief-fueled vengeance, her stillness cutting through the melee. Michelle Waterson’s Assassin, trained in MMA, moves with split-second precision—Evans cuts around her like a jazz drummer accentuating off-beat hits.

Even Luis Guzmán’s Uncle Raul, in scant minutes, anchors us in this world—his knowing smile and textured delivery offering brief humanity amid the fray. Small cameos—a crooked politician’s aide here, a beat cop’s partner there—add depth to the crowded cityscape, each performer a note in Evans’s brutal symphony.

Crafting Havoc’s Visual Identity

Gareth Evans approaches Havoc with the precision of a dance choreographer, staging each burst of violence as if scored to a jazz riff. His camera swoops through rain-slick alleys and nightclub floors with whip pans that recall Godard’s handheld spontaneity, yet remain anchored in blockbuster clarity. Action and environment meld seamlessly: bullets tear through neon reflections, and every explosion underscores the city’s oppressive mood.

DP Matt Flannery frames perpetual night with deep blacks interrupted by electric signage. Tracking shots follow projectiles in flight, granting violence a balletic weight—moments that reminded me of New Wave experiments in timing and rhythm. In quieter scenes, the lens lingers on steam rising from grates, echoing the film’s underground tenor.

The production team built most of the city on a Cardiff soundstage, layering CGI skylines to evoke a hybrid East–West metropolis. That artificial world feels lived-in thanks to damp textures, dripping pipes, and slick pavements that catch every glint of passing headlights. In contrast, Walker’s lakeside cabin offers genuine respite—a wood retreat drenched in snow that stands apart from the urban crush.

Costumes and props ground each character: leather jackets scuffed by street fights, tailored suits stained by crime, simple civilian wear spattered with rain. Rain and steam become props of their own, heightening suspense as figures step in and out of shadowy doorways. This fusion of art direction and technical craft makes Havoc a visceral canvas, where every frame pulses with intent.

A Symphony of Violence

Evans treats each set piece like a movement in a jazz suite, shifting tempos and textures without missing a beat. The opening chase—where washing machines become flying projectiles—feels like improvised percussion, household appliances turned percussion instruments in service of chaos. That sequence blends choreographed car stunts with sudden jolts of slow-motion, as if Evans were riffing on Godard’s playful cuts but dialing up the intensity to blockbuster levels.

The nightclub brawl unfolds across multiple decks, punch and blade work woven through strobe-lit shadows. Here, hand-to-hand precision meets gunfire brutality: one moment, bodies spin in kung-fu arcs; the next, a shotgun blast fractures a wall. Stunt teams coordinate with surgical clarity, ensuring we never lose sight of who’s landing which blow. It reminded me of watching an indie martial-arts troupe tackling a mainstream canvas—raw energy neatly contained.

Camera choices sharpen that energy. Evans intersperses POV fragments—bullets whistling past the lens—with sustained long takes that let choreography breathe. Rapid cuts punctuate crescendos, while tracking shots that follow a bullet’s arc evoke the fluidity of a Wes Anderson steadicam move, albeit drenched in sweat and rain.

Practical blood packs deliver visceral splatter; CGI serves mostly as touch-up, keeping effects tactile. Slow-motion punctures key moments—an arm raised, a face registering shock—lending them a weighty resonance. You feel every impact, as if cinema itself were bruised.

Echoes of Hong Kong titans like Hard Boiled and The Killer pulse through the film, even as Evans nods to John Wick’s intricate world-building. There’s a hint of video-game framing—levels of conflict unlocked one after another—but grounded by gritty textures.

Amid the carnage, brief gestures humanize: Ellie’s determined stance after a narrow escape, Walker’s hesitation before firing. Yet there’s a fatigue registerable across the audience—so much relentless motion that you almost crave a quiet interlude. That weariness underscores how spectacle can wear you down, even when it dazzles.

Rain-Soaked Morality Play

Havoc treats corruption as an ever-present current, showing law enforcement and organized crime flowing from the same source. Walker’s voice-over—“Choices you try to justify”—echoes like a mournful trumpet solo, capturing his tug between keeping self-interest alive and glimmers of conscience. It’s reminiscent of Godard’s moral riffs in Breathless, where characters drift between right and wrong with equal ease.

Each decision fuels the city’s spiral. A single gunshot or slip of cover sends shockwaves through crowded streets, as if every bullet is an accelerant on urban decay. That motif of choice feels timely, reflecting today’s collective anxiety about accountability—whether in public institutions or our own private lives—mirrored here in perpetual rainfall and stalled traffic.

Mia’s flight from triad hitmen carries echoes of classic noir heroines, though she resists helplessness with grit. Ellie’s bravery cuts through cynicism, offering a momentary note of hope amid relentless night. Their arcs nod to Jean Renoir’s resilient women, and to modern storytellers like Greta Gerwig, who mine strength from vulnerability.

City itself becomes character: neon reflections blur into pools of shadow, walls close in as Hunter S. Thompson might have described a metropolis on edge. That sense of alienation—faces passing like strangers on Metro trains—captures a generational longing for connection in fragmented times.

Violence operates as currency here. Exchanges of gunfire take the place of dialogue, negotiations signed in blood rather than ink. Yet brief human moments pierce the spectacle: Walker’s faltering glance at a family photo, Mia’s silent resolve in dim corridors. Those instants remind us that even in a film defined by spectacle, empathy can survive the storm.

Sound as the City’s Pulse

Aria Prayogi’s score pulses like neon underbelly jazz, synth rhythms propelling each chase and firefight with relentless drive. In quieter moments, Carpenter-esque drones slip in, casting a looming dread over darkened alleyways. That shift from high-octane energy to brooding minimalism feels akin to watching a Godard scene dissolve from chaos to still life.

Diegetic tracks—club beats thumping through strobe lights—sync exactly with on-screen action, turning dancers into collateral in a ballet of bullets. Then comes the unexpected irony of “O Holy Night” bleeding through speakers as chaos erupts, a moment that reminded me of Truffaut’s playful use of counterintuitive music to jolt viewers out of complacency.

Sound effects anchor us in this wet metropolis: rain tapping on helmets, boots echoing in empty corridors, bullets cracking against metal. Editor’s choice to cut between silence and sudden gunfire punctuates impact, giving each shot a startling weight. Layered beneath it all is a low hum of traffic and distant sirens, binding score and city into one living, breathing organism.

Full Credits

Director: Gareth Evans

Writer: Gareth Evans

Producers and Executive Producers: Gareth Evans, Tom Hardy, Ed Talfan, Aram Tertzakian

Cast: Tom Hardy, Jessie Mei Li, Justin Cornwell, Quelin Sepulveda, Luis Guzmán, Yeo Yann Yann, Timothy Olyphant, Forest Whitaker, Sunny Pang, Michelle Waterson, Xelia Mendes-Jones, Jim Caesar

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Matt Flannery

Editors: Sara Jones, Matt Platts-Mills

Composer: Aria Prayogi​