Five stars. Rated R, for profanity and strong violence
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 9.12.14
Getting close to two decades ago,
Alec Baldwin starred in an adaptation of Heaven’s Prisoners, second in James
Lee Burke’s atmosphere-laden series of Dave Robicheaux novels. The film is just
this side of brilliant, with director Phil Joanou and scripters Harley Peyton
and Scott Frank unerringly catching the rhythm and cadence of Burke’s prose, while
Baldwin delivers what remains one of his best-ever performances as the
recovering alcoholic, ex-New Orleans cop struggling to endure as he gets pulled
into a particularly seamy investigation.
It remains one of my all-time
favorite book-to-film translations, in great part because Joanou, Peyton and
Frank get Burke just right.
Despite this, the film was dead
on arrival, dumped unloved when its studio of origin went bankrupt. As Baldwin
was one of the executive producers, I’ve no doubt he hoped to turn Robicheaux
into a franchise. Not in the cards, alas. All these years later, I still
imagine What Might Have Been.
Turning a noir crime thriller
into a film is tremendously difficult, particularly when dealing with a writer
whose poetic prose evokes so many striking images. Many filmmakers have tried;
most have failed. Director Steven Soderbergh also got it right, with his
handling of Elmore Leonard’s Out of Sight. Scott Frank wrote that script, as
well.
All of which brings us to The
Drop, which joins Heaven’s Prisoners on its lofty perch in my cinematic
memory. This is an impeccable noir-story-to-film translation, thanks in great
part to the fact that Dennis Lehane adapted it from his own short story,
“Animal Rescue” (which, just in passing, would have been a better title for this
film, as well).
Lehane apparently liked
re-visiting this scenario so much that he expanded the story into a novel, also
titled The Drop. But the original story remains readily available via the
Internet, and I encourage you to seek it out ... but — promise, now! — only
after seeing this film.
Bringing Lehane’s books to the
big screen has become something of a cottage franchise; even more impressive is
the fact that everybody involved has done such good work. The list is striking: Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone and Shutter Island. But this is the first
one Lehane scripted himself, which makes it a standout. And he’s a natural,
which is no surprise, given his writing chops (also displayed on several
scripts for gritty TV shows such as The Wire and Boardwalk Empire).
His hard-edged dialogue sounds
just right; we sense its authenticity even though we’re likely unfamiliar with
the archetypes populating this story. Not unless we’re born and bred on the
mean, cloistered parish streets of a major metropolis (Boston’s Dorchester in
the original short story, inexplicably moved to Brooklyn here). These are
people we don’t want to know, neighborhoods we don’t want to inhabit after
dark. Probably not in the daytime, either.
But film is a collaborative art;
many fine scripts have been destroyed after leaving their creators’ hands. Not
the case here: Up-and-coming Belgian director Michaël R. Roskam — who earned a
Best Foreign Film Oscar nod for 2011’s Bullhead — has done a masterful job
with this tense, brooding story. (Isn’t it interesting, just in passing, that
some of the best recent adaptations of American noir novels have been helmed by
foreign directors?)
The casting here also is
impeccable. The momentary pang we experience, seeing James Gandolfini on the
screen for the final time, is eased by the quick realization that the richly
expressive actor has gifted us with another deftly nuanced performance.
Good as Gandolfini is, though,
this film is owned by Tom Hardy: a rising character actor who hit our radar in
Christopher Nolan’s “Inception,” and has since made equally strong impressions
in the remake of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and last year’s one-hander, Locke. Hardy’s performance here is a masterpiece of mournful subtlety.
Bob Saginowski (Hardy) is a
quietly lonely guy: not really living, but merely going through the motions of
existing somewhere along society’s fringes. We get a sense that Bob never has
been loved by a woman, never has enjoyed the company of friends on a rowdy
Friday night. He makes occasional attempts at thoughtful gestures, as if
unfamiliar with such behavior ... perhaps never having been taught the social
graces by parents who died before their time.
Lots of folks die before their
time, in such neighborhoods; cinematographer Nicolas Karakatsanis unerringly
captures the bleak, grimy despair that drifts through the air, much like the
slivers of paint peeling from the forlorn apartments. Bob lives alone in the
house where he grew up, maintaining appearances despite the certain knowledge
that he’ll never entertain any visitors.
All this, we extract from Hardy’s
brooding, thoughtful gaze, the set of his body, and from Roskam’s economical
tableaus. Just as richly distinctive as Lehane’s prose.
Bob tends bar for his cousin Marv
(Gandolfini), a forlorn misfit in his own right. Marv still laments the day,
years ago, when he lost ownership control of his bar to the Chechen mobsters
who now control the neighborhood. They’re led by Chovka (Michael Aronov), a calmly
scary fellow one definitely shouldn’t cross.
No surprise, then, that Marv and
Bob are less than pleased when their bar is robbed, late one night, by a couple
of young thugs with more moxie than sense. They neither know nor care that
Chechens “own” this bar, and its nightly take.
Chovka isn’t pleased by this turn
of events, and he holds Marv and Bob responsible for the missing $5,000.
Definitely unfair, but that’s life. Somehow, the amateur stick-up artists must
be found, the money returned.
It’s not just the theft itself; Marv’s
reputation is on the line. His bar is one of many occasionally used as
money-laundering “drops” for Brooklyn crime bosses needing temporary banks for
their ill-gotten gains. Pubs are chosen randomly; payoffs and skimmed money are
deposited clandestinely throughout the given evening, later carted away
concealed in empty beer barrels. It’s an honor to become the designated drop,
but also a precarious responsibility.
Although Bob is concerned — only
a fool wouldn’t be — his mind is on other matters. Late one night, taking a
lonely walk along the neighborhood streets, he hears an odd sound;
investigating, he finds a wounded puppy dumped in a trash can. Something stirs
within him; we see the transformation on Hardy’s face. This man has a soft spot
for defenseless creatures.
The trash can belongs to Nadia
(Noomi Rapace, still easily recognized as the original Girl with the Dragon
Tattoo), whose wary eyes regard Bob with suspicion. She seems genuinely
surprised by the dog, perhaps amused by Bob’s utter helplessness in the face of
this unexpected situation.
It takes a few days, but the
puppy eventually winds up at Bob’s house. As does Nadia, after a fashion, as
something of a dog-watcher during Bob’s shifts at the bar. But this isn’t a
relationship: more of an uneasy truce between two melancholy people who long
ago gave up expecting much in the way of kindness.
Bob gets used to having the puppy
around. Gets accustomed to Nadia, as well. Then, one day, a shadowy presence
hovering at the fringes of Bob’s world lands and identifies himself: Eric Deeds
(Matthias Schoenaerts, softly chilling), a malignant thug with dangerous eyes
who claims ownership of the puppy.
“You beat him,” Bob objects, humbly.
Eric couldn’t care less. He wants
the dog, simply because Bob has him, and Eric clearly exists solely to bring
pain into people’s lives. Bob nonetheless holds his ground, sends Eric on his
way. And so begins a campaign of quiet terror, as Bob finds himself in the
crosshairs of a malevolent force whose next move can’t be predicted. Except
that it’ll be bad.
Elsewhere, street-wise Detective
Torres (John Ortiz) has been sniffing around the details of the bar robbery,
convinced that Marv and Bob know more than they’re telling. Ortiz has the
genial, rumpled affectation of Peter Falk’s Columbo: a smiling investigator who
curries friendship but misses nothing. Torres recognizes Bob from daily Mass at
the old neighborhood parish church. Torres laments its pending closure: one of
many incidental details that lend such weight and complexity to these
characters.
Mostly, though, these various
events fester like a wound turning septic; the mounting atmosphere of dread is
palpable, soon all-consuming. This is, without question, the most nervous movie
you’ve experienced in awhile. We grow terrified about consequences to come,
worried about numerous potential victims: the puppy, Nadia and particularly
poor Bob, so clearly overwhelmed by everything.
At the same time, Lehane injects sporadic
notes of humor, albeit of the gallows variety. We chuckle, on occasion ... but
it’s anxious laughter.
Hardy’s performance is a study in
subtle shading. Bob’s non-sequitur efforts at conversation make us wonder if
perhaps he’s a bit slow, a bit simple. Sure, he navigates the world after a
fashion, but he seems utterly powerless in the face of ordinary things like a
dog’s presence. He has no idea how to talk to Nadia; she, in turn, is utterly
baffled by his inability to connect with anything.
And yet Bob is grounded in some
important ways, starting with his genuine respect for the danger represented
by, say, Chovka and his associates. Bob does his best to skirt anything
remotely approaching confrontation. He really just wants to tend bar; it’s a
familiar routine with which he’s comfortable.
Rapace makes an equally strong
impression as Nadia, a woman forced by circumstance to be tougher than she’d
prefer, who undoubtedly fears one day turning into an elderly barfly like
Millie, who occupies the same stool at Marv’s place every night. Rapace conveys
the beaten-down bearing that Lehane’s short story nails with a few crisp
sentences: “She had a tiny moon of a face ... and small, heart-pendant eyes.
Shoulders that didn’t cut so much as dissolve at the arms.”
This is a rigorously controlled
film, everything orchestrated to perfection under Roskam’s detail-oriented
guidance. There’s nary a flaw to be seen, unless one hasn’t a fondness for
slow-burn thrillers that develop more from clipped conversation and latent
menace, than overtly brutal and explosive acts. Truly dangerous, frightening
psychopaths don’t need to be noisy or ostentatiously violent; their power
derives from what they’re about to do.
And yet, this film’s many fine
qualities notwithstanding, I fear that it’s destined to share the same fate as Heaven’s
Prisoners: a modest, inadequately promoted indie production almost certain to
be ignored by mainstream viewers.
So see it quickly, before
diminishing box-office returns prompt its quick removal from theater screens.
Because, no question, this is one of the year’s best.
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