Archive for January 31st, 2018

 © 2018 by James Clark

      Playwright, and now auteur, Martin McDonagh, brings to the screen—in his film Three Billboards (2017)—a close encounter with obsession we’ve all seen; but not like this. Fashion and industrial designer, and now auteur, Tom Ford, recently (in 2016) constructed a fascinating study of obsessive revenge, titled, Nocturnal Animals, wherein a writer plots revenge upon his former wife by way of disclosing to her the script of a protagonist who was unable to protect his wife and adolescent daughter from being viciously raped and murdered. The latter filmic locomotiveknows of only the single gratification of destroying an attacker at great heights of physically painful violence.

McDonagh’s vehicle,it seems to me, regarding the aftermath of a vicious rape, murder and immolation of an adolescent girl, does not so much give an accounting of baptism for the sake of decisively taking a stand in a malignant world. Instead, the disclosure upstages apparently sterling personality by way of a weave of sensibility intrinsically on the order of a roller coaster.

A striking and fertile instance of the phenomenon in question pertains to the British lady enclosed in small-town Missouri in the capacity of the wife of the Chief of Police who is facing incurable cancer. We first see her, her two young daughters and her husband maintaining remarkable joie de vivre while pierced with imminent catastrophe. This unmistakably secular group makes its way to a forest and stream attraction, the children eager to cast their lines in that idiom so complementary to a rural home. The happily situated father, Billy Willoughby, orders the little ones—with gentle, jocular gruffness—not to stray from the picnic blanket where they were to ply the stream at its bank. Meanwhile, Billy and the missus depart for a round of coitus in the deep woods. Back home, the lady of the house warmly congratulates the lawman for his “great fuck.” She chafes a bit, burdened with what he calls her “Chardonnay headache” and his having to tend to a couple of saddle ponies in the barn, but the moment of not liking the rural South is readily stanched. Bill goes to the lovingly maintained barn, places a bag over his head—on which we read, “Don’t Remove the Cover”—and he shoots his head with a hand gun. The next step is the three girls comforting each other on the bed. The following morning the brave and dutiful mom visits a souvenir shop and confronts the clerk on duty, namely, Mildred Hayes, a taciturn, anxious middle-aged lady with a youthfully erect presence. The visit is far more angry than unhappy, a situation giving us a start. She hands over a sealed envelope addressed by Billy to Mildred. She cannot resist berating Mildred for her campaign of ridicule and fury regarding—a year after her daughter’s horrific murder—the local police (and particularly Billy) failing to apprehend the culprit or culprits. Billy’s widow, with virtually the whole town backing her, adopts a murderous hatred that Mildred had so unfairly ambushed the harmonics of her family’s remarkableness. (more…)

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