THREE BILLBOARDS Starts Strong But Loses Its Way

Now playing at an indie art house near me:

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI
(Dir. Martin McDonagh, 2017)

Such a juicy premise: a hard as nails Missouri woman rents three billboards alongside a country road to shame her town’s sheriff who has made no arrests in the wake of her daughter’s rape and murder.

And such a great cast: Frances McDormand as Mildred Hayes, the mother whose grief has solidified into anger over this injustice, Woody Harrelson as Chief Willoughby, who doesn’t take kindly to billboards that read “Raped while dying,” “And still no arrests,” and “How come, Chief Willoughby?,” Samuel Rockwell as Officer Jason Dixon, who has a reputation of torturing black suspects; John Hawkes as Mildred’s ex-husband, and Peter Dinklage as a local car salesman who has a crush on Mildred.

Add to that the lush mountain scenery surrounding these characters which has locations shot in my home state of North Carolina standing in for the fictional town of Ebbing, Missouri, and you’ve got the elements to make up a tensely funny thriller, but roughly half way through its nearly two hour running time, the movie runs out of steam and doesn’t know where to go.

This happens right after the exit of one major player and the entrance of a suspect that initially appears to serve as misdirection, but ends up being the direction the film mistakenly decides to go with.

McDormand’s dour divorcée Mildred owns the movie’s best moments, but, like with everyone she interacts with, she never lets us get close to what she’s dealing with enough to really be on her side. Harrelson’s Willoughby draws more empathy as he’s dying of cancer and seems to have a good sincere head on his shoulders, but his character’s fate does the film no favors.

When the film shifts to the underwritten perspective of Rockwell's Officer Dixon, who we never learn whether he is guilty of racist activity or not, the narrative gets muddled, and a restlessness sets in.

Also, the presence of McDormand and composer Carter Burwell (who provides a solid yet instinctive score here) made me wish for the more purposeful (and wittier) approach of the actress and musical director’s long-time collaborators, the Coen brothers.

Writer/Director McDonagh has had better luck with this sort of black comedy in his previous films, IN BRUGE and SEVEN PSYCHOPATHS, which also features Rockwell and Abbie Cornish who appears here as Harrelson’s wife. Here his screenplay strands its protagonists and possible antagonists in a pointless parable.

It’s not that every movie has to have a pat pay-off – many great films end ambiguously – but this particular story of these broken people who fight for justice that they likely will never get deserves a better thematic resolution than we get here.

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SEVEN PSYCHOPATHS: An Amusingly Meta-Minded Dog Napping Caper

SEVEN PSYCHOPATHS (Dir. Martin McDonagh, 2012)

It’s not often that a film lives up to the potential of its cast and premise, but SEVEN PSYCHOPATHS does both, and it does something even rarer - it does the “meta” thing right.

Martin McDonagh’s first full length feature, 2008’s IN BRUGES, leaned a little towards meta with lines like “This is the Shootout” and it’s finale taking place on a film set, but here, in his bloody brilliant second film, the Irish writer/director really goes for the gusto in narrative deconstruction.

Colin Farrell, who also starred in IN BRUGES, plays an alcoholic Los Angeles-based writer living working on a screenplay called, you guessed it, “Seven Psychopaths.” Farrell happens to have a few questionable friends including the not-playing-with-a-full-deck Sam Rockwell who’s in the dognapping business with the eccentric ascot-wearing Christopher Walken.

Rockwell, whose fearlessly unhinged and hilarious performance steals the movie, makes the mistake of kidnapping the beloved shih tzu belonging to a ruthless gangster (Woody Harrelson), and this sets off a series of murders, conversations, and stories told through flashbacks – all of which Farrell is considering to add to his script.

If you find yourself thinking that the females in the cast (Abbie Cornish, Olga Kurylenko, and Gabourey Sidibe) are given short shrift, don’t worry, the folks in the film agree as we witness them discuss how Farrell’s female characters are weak.

The finale in the desert (at Joshua Tree National Park) may seem equally as obvious (someone even calls it “the perfect place for a shootout”), but the playful tone doesn’t feel forced and the winks at the audience didn’t make me cringe like in, say, Shane Black’s lesser equally meta-minded KISS KISS BANG BANG (2005).

In the best way possible, there are shades of Tarantino in the hitman banter and comic use of violence, and the Coen Brothers in the increasing absurdity of the situations as they pile on top of each other.

Great grizzled appearances by Harry Dean Stanton and Tom Waits, mostly appearing in the moody recollections that are intertwined with the film’s ongoing scenarios, give “Seven Psychopaths” a bit of gravitas that elevates the material above what usually passes for edgy comedy at the multiplexes these days.

Sometimes it seems as if SEVEN PSYCHOPATHS may be too much in its own comfort zone, but when it’s as cozily clever, and enjoyably in the know as it often is, McDonagh’s movie plays to its strengths more than it reveals its limitations. Or maybe, I was laughing too much to notice them.

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