(How’s that for uncharacteristic concision? Whose compact assertion I risk squandering
through excessive patting myself on the back.
Nope. I’m out.)
An artiste who
strikes gold early faces the danger of believing they have successfully
“Cracked the Code” and are creatively infallible. An artiste
who directs their own material?
WRITER/DIRECTOR: “What do you think?”
DIRECTOR/WRITER: “I like it.”
WRITER/DIRECTOR: “What a coincidence. So do I.”
I have written earlier about a McDonagh play I saw called The Beauty Queen of Leelane. Formulating Conclusion: A recognizable M.O.
Original writing.
Deficient narrative policing.
(Note: In the
theater, the playwright, especially if successful, has, contractually, the last
word. The director may offer
suggestions, but the playwright is free to hum impatiently which they do so.)
Three Billboards gives
us an intriguing “Jumping Off” point:
Seven months after the atrocity, a grieving mother of a
raped-and-murdered teenaged daughter pays for three adjacent billboards, on
which she challenges the local sheriff for making no progress uncovering the
assailant.
The obstacling “wrinkle” in her unwavering rancor?
The likable sheriff is dying of cancer.
And off we go.
It’s a promising premise.
And the acting, especially the leads:
Frances McDormand, (married to one of the Coen brothers; I am not
certain which one, but it only matters that they
are), Woody Harrelson and Sam Rockwell – are unilaterally rewardingly stellar.
I was also impressed by the overall casting. Although an accompanying family member
pronounced it, “Too ‘Hollywood.’”
Meaning, the participants were too “glossy” (as in actors’ promotional
“8-by-10 ‘Glossies’.”) I myself have no
problem believing there are attractive people in Missouri. Those Hollywood “transplants” must have emigrated from somewhere. The Midwestern air appears to be good for your
complexion.
(A Blogger’s Possibly Erroneous Perception: Since the massive success of Hillbilly Elegy, I have detected a
newfound focus on “Heartland” difficulties.
As in politics, the “Big Cities” feel seemingly eclipsed by the provincial
problems of the unglamorous folks who stayed put. Though it could
be I am just noticing this more.)
Although Three
Billboards’s” storytelling generally held my attention, it, at meaningful
junctures, felt annoyingly arbitrary.
(As if the Writer/Director said, “That’s how I want it” and the Director/Writer
readily concurred.)
Among other diminishing infractions, the less than
scrupulous storyline includes head-scratching coincidences, characters changing
unpersuasively in midstream, and serious actions proceeding without consequence
– a guy throws another guy out a window, with no expected constabulary
follow-up.
It’s like I told a comedy writer once: “Your good
jokes are ‘Check Marks.’ But your bad jokes count too, in the other direction.”
By that score, Three Billboards barely breaks even.
However, because of the acting…
Hold on.
For your increased enjoyment and understanding, I shall now pass
the baton to the superiorly articulate New
York Times film reviewer Manohla Dargis:
“(McDonagh) doesn’t
always know his A material from his B, or he doesn’t care; his jokes can be
uninterestingly glib, with tiny, bloodless pricks that are less about
challenging the audience than about obscuring the material’s clichés and
overriding theatricality.”
I could not have put that better myself, or – which is the
reason I cribbed it – nowhere nearly as skillfully.
In my view, the director went excessively easy on the writer
(who happened also to be the director.) The actors’ performances ultimately bailed
the thing out.
I don’t know.
Maybe it’s idiosyncratic storytelling makes you a
scriptorial standout.
My Humble Personal Assessment:
No creative effort is ever less appreciated because the plot
makes more reasonable sense.
For to occur in the future, however, Mr. McDonagh will have
to surrender some creative decision-making to somebody else.
(Full Disclosure:
Which I would never have admitted when I was calling the shots.)
No comments:
Post a Comment