(dir. William Friedkin, 2012)
“Killer Joe” contains one of the most sadistic scenes I’ve seen a mainstream star perform in a movie, and I’ve seen the “Star Wars Holiday Special.”
The film might not reinvent the wheel. Beat by beat, it performs essentially how you expect. But its own existence justifies itself. Offering a sort of “Double Indemnity” for the trailer park set, within it beats the lurid, seedy soul of film noir. A world offering moral depravity without apology, justification, or meaning.
And guiding it all is the performance of Matthew McConaughey, capping off a banner 2012 which saw him drift from the oily lawyer in “Bernie” to the weary-eyed strip club owner of “Magic Mike” to this without missing a beat. As the eponymous Joe, he’s a detective moonlighting as a hitman, brought in to end a redneck Texas mother so her son and ex-husband can collect on the insurance policy.
Suggesting a second career playing heavies might be in the cards, he oozes dread, but keeps it boiling right beneath the surface. How hard must it be for an actor to convincingly play scary? Harder still to do while being the quietest guy in the room. McConaughey here causes you lean forward in your seat simply by stepping onto the screen.
Long relegated to being a movie star in the classic sense, playing variations on what we believe to be himself, he reveals depths here that almost piss you off for not being known earlier. It’s as if Michael Jordan tried playing baseball again, but didn’t suck.
If the movie surrounding him is by the numbers, eh, so what? We also knew things wouldn’t turn out so well for the characters in “Touch Of Evil” or “Detour” either. Noir isn’t about the destination, but it’s barely even about the journey. It’s about the window dressing. The details. The attitude.
That isn’t to say “Killer Joe” is a shrugged case of style of substance. It’s to say the style IS the substance.
What impeccable style it is, too. With director William Friedkin of “The Exorcist” and “The French Connection” and screenwriter Tracy Letts, you feel in the steady hands of people who really really know what they’re doing.
During the movie’s particularly shady scenes of morality, this trust goes a long way. Such as when Joe seduces a preteen girl, sidling near her and choreographing a moment of depraved romance, the movie threatens to fly off the rails by virtue of its own oily residue. Another scene involving fried chicken that no doubt earned the movie its NC-17 rating likely won't see an advertising tie-in with KFC. But Friedkin and Letts keep things grounded.
It never exists for its own sake. It never delves into the giggling world of, “Can you believe what we’re getting away with?” Instead it remains a respectable, “Can you believe what these people are doing?”
Perhaps it might have been a more rousing success if it tore down that distance. As it is, “Killer Joe” remains a perfectly admirable case of seedy characters kept at arms length. Never does it delve into their motivations, and never does it hold us culpable for enjoying their crimes. The great film noirs make us feel like we’re part of the action. If this movie is a circus geek biting the heads off chickens, it’s presented by a barker who clearly never hangs out with him backstage.
As movie crimes go, though, a fairly minor one this is. Even if “Killer Joe” never crosses the realm of “movie you show to your cool friends” into “movie you show everyone,” let us still thank God it did its thing anyway. Having the balls to admit this world of people even exists is a bold move. And to do so without apology is even bolder. Here is a movie that inspires baths.
It’s enough to make you forget that Hazy Davy never shows up.
No comments:
Post a Comment