What is it with filmmakers who start out with some quirky
little movie that gets a lot of recognition for its panache, or great writing,
or great storytelling and then they’re given a big budget and bunch of movie
stars and things just seem to run away from them? Martin McDonagh started out
with In Bruges, which signaled the
start of a promising career in the gangster/hitman genre, the kind of talky
pictures about wretched individuals who nevertheless epitomize cool made famous
by Quentin Tarantino. Seven Psychopaths
is his second feature film, an absurd farce of a story about an Irish
screenwriter named Marty (autobiographical much?) trying to write a movie
called Seven Psychopaths
(self-referential much?).
In his desperation to be clever and to be all things to
all people, McDonagh has created a story of such confusion, devoid of grace and
subtlety, it is a far cry from the quiet little gem that launched his career.
He tries to pack so much into his story that he gets lost, not at all unlike
Marty, played by Colin Farrell in a performance that vacillates between little
lost puppy and distraught neurotic. He’s not alone in the overacting
department. Sam Rockwell plays his best friend Billy, an out of work actor who
supplements his lack of income by kidnapping dogs and then collecting reward
money. Rockwell screams and stomps and grimaces through a thankless role that
basically asks him to be the most unbelievable character in a movie this century.
Woody Harrelson is not much better as Charlie, a crazed crime syndicate boss
with a soft spot for his shih tzu Bonny. When Billy kidnaps the dog, that’s
when all hell breaks loose because Charlie will kill anyone who stands in the
path between him and his beloved. He’s one of the seven, get it? But if you start
trying to count them, you’re lost. McDonagh tries to count them for us, but
then two of them turn out to be the same guy and there are others still who
might qualify. I don’t know. And one isn’t even part of the story, but is just
a character dreamed up by Marty whose story is fleshed out later Hans.
Hans is Billy’s partner in the doggy stealing business,
played by Christopher Walken, who turns out rather surprisingly to be the one
actor in the film refusing to gobble up the scenery. Hans has so many sad
stories in his past you can’t possibly expect his end to be anything other than
tragic. Walken is playing against type here. He’s not menacing. He might not
even be one of the psychopaths. He’s just a sad father and husband to a woman
battling cancer whose faith in God gets him through. Tom Waits also brings a
certain measure of calm, along with creepy, to Zachariah, a self-proclaimed
psychopath who carries a white rabbit and tells a bizarre story of he and his
wife exacting revenge on the worst elements of society. His story fits the
revenge theme that permeates the film, but each story is shoehorned into the
screenplay. Zachariah doesn’t belong here. It’s a careless diversion from the
narrative.
Faith is the second common thread (after revenge) that
binds together McDonagh’s work, including his two features and the film that
Marty the character is writing. He shares that along with his name with
Scorsese, whose character often find themselves in a crisis of faith. In Seven Psychopaths we see it in a Quaker
who contemplates revenge, in an Irish Catholic writer who drinks to silence his
demons, and in a Buddhist whose final thoughts before his last act of protest
are a contemplation of revenge.
McDonagh is channeling equal parts Scorsese (Billy’s last
name is Bickle, first uttered as he delivers a monologue to a mirror), Coen
brothers (Carter Burwell’s score is unmistakably reminiscent of Fargo and Ben Davis’s cinematography
tries occasionally to recall Roger Deakins’ atmospheric interiors) and
Tarantino (a cold open features two hitmen on a job discussing the efficacy of
shooting someone in the eye). The conversation in that opening not only overtly
references The Godfather, but also
HBO’s ”Boardwalk Empire” by casting Michael Pitt and Michael Stuhlbarg as the
hitmen. Finding these little reference points can be an amusing pastime like an
Easter egg hunt, but it adds up to a shoddy mish-mash of clumsily strung
together ideas. It feels like McDonagh was more concerned with making a movie
like other gangster filmmakers of the past than he was with using his own style
that got him where he is in the first place. I’ll admit to laughing quite a bit
– how could you not at some of the more ridiculous exchanges that take place. And
the sudden appearance of Harry Dean Stanton as a Quaker should make any avid
moviegoer chuckle. Although the violence, obviously intended to be funny in its
shocking absurdity, never reaches the heights of hilarity that Tarantino
achieve when John Travolta accidentally blew someone’s head apart in a car.
One character
complains that Marty’s screenplay treats women terribly, that they meet a bad
end and have nothing interesting to say before they get there. There’s useful
commentary to be made on that topic when it comes to the action and gangster
genres, but not when the movie in which you make the comment itself treats
women as plot devices and punching bags (though not of the literal kind). Abbie Cornish plays Mary’s girlfriend, a character who seems to exist solely for the
men to say foul things about. Gabourey Sidibe’s presence can only be explained
as an excuse to have Charlie and his henchmen make terrible fat jokes. The only
woman who has any remotely interesting lines is Hans’s wife Myra (Linda Bright
Clay), who has been placed in the screenplay so that Hans can get from one plot
point to another.
McDonagh is better than this. Let’s hope the next time he
isn’t given carte blanche and a large budget so that he may go back to making
smaller pictures that have something interesting to say without all the
bloating and gas.
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