The show must go on, as the venerable saying goes, and two years’ worth of Covid restrictions and limitations forced filmmakers to think way outside the box.
Sometimes — as in this case — with remarkably clever results.
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| Leonard (Mark Rylance) and his assistant, Mable (Zoey Deutch), are about to endure an unusual — and increasingly dangerous — night. |
(Moore shared an Academy Award for co-scripting 2014’s equally engaging The Imitation Game. He definitely has a way with plot and well-sculpted characters.)
The setting is early 1950s Chicago. Leonard Burling (Mark Rylance), a soft-spoken ex-pat Brit, has established a successful corner-shop career as a talented maker of fine suits. (“I’m a cutter,” he patiently insists, more than once, “not a tailor.”)
Moore opens the film with a lengthy sequence as Leonard explains his craft — in voiceover — while we watch how a suit emerges from paper patterns and four different kinds of fabric. Because of the quietly reverential quality of Rylance’s narration, and the fascinating process itself — so esoteric, and highlighted by an old-world attention to precision — this prologue is totally captivating.
(If you assume this introduction is insignificant, think again; Leonard’s calmly measured recitation has an ingenious third-act payoff.)
Leonard’s customers are greeted by Mable (Zoey Deutch), his receptionist/assistant. Their relationship is friendly and cordial; the affection and mutual respect are obvious … although Leonard, wholly at peace with his place in the world, is amused by Mable’s restlessness.
But not everybody coming through the front door is a customer. Numerous daily visitors bypass Mable — she never looks up — and head straight to Leonard’s rear cutting room, where they place sealed packets into a lockbox. The shop is a drop-off point for protection money payments, and the neighborhood is under the thumb of organized crime.
As it happens, Leonard’s best customer, Roy Boyle (Simon Russell Beale), is the local boss.
Leonard quietly tolerates mildly contemptuous ribbing from Boyle’s son, Richie (Dylan O’Brien), and his best friend and protective gunsel, Francis (Johnny Flynn) — they call him “English” — when they visit weekly to collect the packets. Complacently unruffled, Leonard politely refers to the former as “Master Richie.”
By this point, a lesser actor might have made Leonard look like a coward, or a fool: somebody deserving contempt. But Rylance gives a brilliant, impeccably shaded performance; Leonard’s mild acceptance never seems weak or servile. His carefully worded comments and replies are laced with ambiguous subtleties, which Richie and Francis lack the perception to recognize.
Moore establishes an atmosphere of routine and acceptance. Leonard has had the shop since he left England following the close of World War II; Mabel probably has been present from the beginning; Boyle’s gang members have trundled in and out the entire time.
But the dynamic shifts when Richie and Francis find one packet, among the weekly take, that is marked with an unusual symbol. Tension runs higher; rumblings of a nationwide organized crime cartel known as “The Outfit” take place amid rising concerns that Boyle’s neighborhood control is about to be challenged by a turf war.
Worse yet, Richie and Francis are convinced that their gang has been infiltrated by a stoolie, who has ratted them out to the FBI. Richie and his father subsequently fixate on a Hitchcockian McGuffin: a surveillance tape that should identify the traitor.
Everything blows up late one night, long after Leonard has closed, although he remains occupied with his work in the back room.
What follows — for slightly more than an hour! — is a masterpiece of suspicion, evasion, deflection and danger. Moore and McClain bare their teeth early on, with a sudden burst of violence that leaves us nervous and agitated, from that point forward: Anything could happen.
O’Brien’s Richie is impulsive and twitchy: an impatient heir apparent to his father’s throne. But he’s too cocky and arrogant; it becomes clear that Francis is more naturally suited to step into Roy’s shoes. Richie knows this, which adds a dangerous edge to the relationship with his “best friend.”
Flynn’s Francis is calm, cool and more of a thinker. He once took six bullets meant for Roy: a gesture the crime boss hasn’t forgotten. But is Francis’ loyalty a front, and is he secretly scheming to replace Richie? Flynn’s mocking, ambiguous expressions leave us wondering.
Deutch plays Mable with spunk and just enough sass to demonstrate independence, without sliding into foolish bravado. She seems too apple-pie to be a femme fatale, but — as with everybody else in this story — Deutch delivers an intriguing level of ambiguity.
Beale’s Roy exudes confidence and control; we’ve no doubt why this man has ruled the neighborhood for so long. His fondness for Leonard certainly wouldn’t get in the way of a hard — or lethal — decision.
Alan Mehdizadeh is memorably imposing as Monk, Roy’s gun-toting torpedo.
Although these goombahs generate the tension, Rylance controls this film; it’s impossible to take our eyes off him. Every raised eyebrow — or outstretched hand, or quiet protest, or worried glance — is heavy with meaning and implication. This is a genius performance.
Moore and editor William Goldenberg maintain an impressive level of suspense and uncertainty; we’re soon jumping at shadows, just like this story’s characters. Composer Alexandre Desplat augments the mounting anxiety with a fidgety orchestral score; edgy piano filigrees soon feel like ice water sliding down our spines.
The Outfit — marvelous double-entendre title, by the way — is a total head-game. Moore and McClain play us, toy with us, like experienced anglers.
There’s no shame in being hooked, when the prize is baited so cleverly.
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