I kind of liked it. Oh, it's leisurely and the plot is nothing special, but the overall impact on the viewer is likely to be positive.
The acting, for instance, is pretty good. Joaquin Phoenix seems to have gotten bonier as he's matured and has acquired some character. He's alright, and the director gives him room. When his ex-girl friend shoots his current lover, he throws the perpetrator against a wall and pressing her with his left forearm he repeatedly punches his right fist against the wood panel next to her head. Then he pauses, his triceps quivering, holds the position for an unusually long period, and then he delivers another blow to the smashed wood. It's a tiny wordless explosion of impotent rage, and it's perfectly timed. Phoenix is suspected of multiple murders actually committed by a recent acquaintance. He's afraid to go to the police because, well, things would look a little fishy, what with his knowing the victims and having struck one of them just before she disappeared.
Janeane Garofalo is petite and not strikingly beautiful as an FBI agent who smokes grass and then eats pizza, and all the while the gears in her brain are still whirling. She's businesslike, utters clipped, sarcastic remarks, and has a smile full of dazzlingly white teeth that belong in a commercial for Bright Strip. Okay. Strictly routine. But then we see her in a bar, getting into some scotch, and she is getting hit on by Vince Vaughn who, unbeknownst to her, is the serial killer she's searching for. Here's the thing about that scene. Considering what we've seen of her character so far, we fully expect her to advise Vaughn to take up residence in a place where the sun don't shine -- but no! Like an actor in a Greek drama, she holds up another persona. She becomes girlish and responsive, flattered by Vaughn's clumsy and overobvious attention, and playful with him before he hustles off with his next victim, leaving Garafolo clearly a little unhappy. Again, it isn't much, not a display of thespian fireworks, but it TELLS us something we wouldn't have guessed about her. She's a woman under that badge and behind that gun. Her character has acquired another dimension. She's no longer a stereotype. And the scene impresses on us the fake rapport that the killer can generate in strangers.
Vince Vaughn has the showiest role, a big, affable, charming, slightly dumb cowboy with a yen for cutting up cute girls into little pieces. His performance, alas, is as bland as his face, although it's professional. He doesn't blow it. He just doesn't bring much to the party.
Scott Wilson is the local sheriff. He's turned into a decent character actor, light years away from his murderer in "In Cold Blood." He's feeble, shuffling, spare of speech, and a little morose, as if filled with guilt for having slaughtered the Clutter family.
The score is quite original too. None of it is what you'd expect from a movie about a serial murderer. There are some country and western tunes in the background, Elvis Presley, "Moon Over Montana," reflecting the rather dreary social atmosphere of the town. As Vaughn says at one point, "Country music is an acquired taste." (Garofalo's reply: "No it isn't. I've listened to it and hated it from the beginning. Scotch is an acquired taste.") But then the underscore comes up with some strange sounds indeed. Tympani are repeatedly swept up and down as if rolling over Montana's hills. Odd, unexpected clicks and clacks. It doesn't distract the viewer and it comes across as apt in a queer way. But the score isn't of a piece either. It's made up of multiple discordant riffs drawn from different quarters and pasted together.
It's a nicely judged piece of work, striking a neat mean between being loud and edgy and being soft and dull. The script itself may be routine but the actors and the director lend it fresh dimensions.
The acting, for instance, is pretty good. Joaquin Phoenix seems to have gotten bonier as he's matured and has acquired some character. He's alright, and the director gives him room. When his ex-girl friend shoots his current lover, he throws the perpetrator against a wall and pressing her with his left forearm he repeatedly punches his right fist against the wood panel next to her head. Then he pauses, his triceps quivering, holds the position for an unusually long period, and then he delivers another blow to the smashed wood. It's a tiny wordless explosion of impotent rage, and it's perfectly timed. Phoenix is suspected of multiple murders actually committed by a recent acquaintance. He's afraid to go to the police because, well, things would look a little fishy, what with his knowing the victims and having struck one of them just before she disappeared.
Janeane Garofalo is petite and not strikingly beautiful as an FBI agent who smokes grass and then eats pizza, and all the while the gears in her brain are still whirling. She's businesslike, utters clipped, sarcastic remarks, and has a smile full of dazzlingly white teeth that belong in a commercial for Bright Strip. Okay. Strictly routine. But then we see her in a bar, getting into some scotch, and she is getting hit on by Vince Vaughn who, unbeknownst to her, is the serial killer she's searching for. Here's the thing about that scene. Considering what we've seen of her character so far, we fully expect her to advise Vaughn to take up residence in a place where the sun don't shine -- but no! Like an actor in a Greek drama, she holds up another persona. She becomes girlish and responsive, flattered by Vaughn's clumsy and overobvious attention, and playful with him before he hustles off with his next victim, leaving Garafolo clearly a little unhappy. Again, it isn't much, not a display of thespian fireworks, but it TELLS us something we wouldn't have guessed about her. She's a woman under that badge and behind that gun. Her character has acquired another dimension. She's no longer a stereotype. And the scene impresses on us the fake rapport that the killer can generate in strangers.
Vince Vaughn has the showiest role, a big, affable, charming, slightly dumb cowboy with a yen for cutting up cute girls into little pieces. His performance, alas, is as bland as his face, although it's professional. He doesn't blow it. He just doesn't bring much to the party.
Scott Wilson is the local sheriff. He's turned into a decent character actor, light years away from his murderer in "In Cold Blood." He's feeble, shuffling, spare of speech, and a little morose, as if filled with guilt for having slaughtered the Clutter family.
The score is quite original too. None of it is what you'd expect from a movie about a serial murderer. There are some country and western tunes in the background, Elvis Presley, "Moon Over Montana," reflecting the rather dreary social atmosphere of the town. As Vaughn says at one point, "Country music is an acquired taste." (Garofalo's reply: "No it isn't. I've listened to it and hated it from the beginning. Scotch is an acquired taste.") But then the underscore comes up with some strange sounds indeed. Tympani are repeatedly swept up and down as if rolling over Montana's hills. Odd, unexpected clicks and clacks. It doesn't distract the viewer and it comes across as apt in a queer way. But the score isn't of a piece either. It's made up of multiple discordant riffs drawn from different quarters and pasted together.
It's a nicely judged piece of work, striking a neat mean between being loud and edgy and being soft and dull. The script itself may be routine but the actors and the director lend it fresh dimensions.