Few legends on the poster will attract my attention as much as these: “Written and directed by Martin McDonagh.” McD once wrote a play and showed it to Woody Harrelson. Who turned it down. Because it was too dark. For the guy who starred in “Natural Born Killers.”
With his second movie, “Seven Psychopaths,” the author of such hilariously macabre plays as “The Pillowman” still isn’t quite getting it right on the big screen. This is one crazy bastard of a movie, but too many of its moments of let’s-subvert-the-genre seem to leave McDonagh stranded and flailing at just the moment when a Tarantino movie or a Chuck Palahniuk novel is snapping into place.
Harrelson plays a dog-loving mobster whose Shih Tzu has been kidnapped. He is not cool with this. Billy (Sam Rockwell) and Hans (Christopher Walken) have been snapping up expensive dogs in public parks in LA, then presenting themselves for the reward money.
So far, so swell, but Billy’s screenwriter friend, Martin (Colin Farrell, not the guy who comes to mind to play a nerd), is stuck on Page One of his new script. It’s called “Seven Psychopaths.” So far his only idea is for a Buddhist psycho. Or maybe a Quaker . . .
Severely brilliant stuff follows, broken up by childish humor, random shards of weirdness and depraved violence. If you’re bothered by gore, stay away.
What appears to be a relatively straightforward story — containing lots of Tarantino and a little “Dexter,” with serial killers killing serial killers — gets folded like origami in the second half. But instead of causing the “Aha!” moments of “Pulp Fiction,” McDonagh delivers lots of “Huh?” There’s too much going on here for me to wrap my head around, but I reserve the right in 10 years to call this a masterpiece. Or a failure.
There is a first-draft feel to the proceedings, and McDonagh bites off more history than he can chew (Vietnam? Really?) But his rejection of cliché serves him well. Tom Waits as a loner with a sick past — and a bunny he carries around? Sweet, even when we learn of his murder habit.
Then there’s that McDonagh dialogue: “You can’t let the animals die in the movie,” someone says. “Just the women.” There’s “Peace is for queers” (don’t worry, it’s a psycho who says this) and Walken’s remark that he isn’t fit for a job, even with the employer of last resort. “The government?” he says. He’d rather do nothing than be “just stealing from folks.” Then there’s the classic-sounding, Chandler-esque: “He’s my writer friend.” “Yeah, I can smell the booze.”
In the end (which continues into the credits), I was left thinking McDonagh can do better than this, and yet I was slightly more agog with admiration than peevish with frustration. Most of all, I wanted to see the film again.