Four stars. Rated PG-13, for brief violence, profanity, sexual candor and drug references
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.6.19
I haven’t had this much fun since 2001’s Gosford Park.
From the opening scene — as two large dogs charge ominously across the grounds of a massive secluded estate, accompanied by an unsettling warble of violins from soundtrack composer Nathan Johnson — we’re obviously in good hands.
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| While Marta (Ana de Armas) watches uncomfortably, private investigator Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) puzzles his way through one of the many inconsistencies in the "suicide" that he increasingly believes was staged. |
Writer/director Rian Johnson’s Knives Out is a droll, clever riff on classic, Agatha Christie-style drawing room murder mysteries. It’s not quite a spoof — the plot is powered by a devilishly twisty whodunit — but one nonetheless senses that all concerned had a great time in the process.
The top-flight cast is headed by Daniel Craig, resolutely solemn as debonair Benoit Blanc, a Southern-friend private investigator who channels Christie’s Hercule Poirot by way of Colonel Sanders. (Once again, British actors are surprisingly convincing with their Deep South accents.) Craig almost never cracks a smile — it wouldn’t suit Benoit’s character — but the more gravely earnest he remains, the funnier the performance.
And Benoit certainly has a puzzler for his little gray cells.
As the film opens, world-famous and wealthy mystery writer Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer) has been dead for a week, his passing written off as suicide: not an unusual a call, given that he was found with the knife that slashed his throat, his fingerprints all over the handle.
As far as local cops Lt. Elliott (LaKeith Stanfield) and Trooper Wagner (Noah Segan) are concerned, the case is closed. They’re therefore baffled when Benoit shows up, claiming to have been hired to investigate the “suspicious circumstances” of Harlan’s death; the gumshoe requests re-interviews with the entire Thrombey clan.
At first blush, they seem united in genuine grief … but after even minimal probing, they turn out to be quite the collection of grasping, spiteful, self-centered, back-biting misfits.
We subsequently witness the events of the night in question, as recalled by each witness, and then sequentially assembled by Benoit. The clan had gathered to celebrate Harlan’s 85th birthday, and — as gradually revealed — the old guy apparently had an angry confrontation with everybody of note. They include:
• Linda (Jamie Lee Curtis), Harlan’s daughter and eldest child, a driven, self-made businesswoman who shares much in common with her deceased father, and — as the de facto lord of the manor — immediately resents Benoit’s presence;
• Richard (Don Johnson), Linda’s suave husband and second-in-command at her real estate business, who clearly dislikes playing second fiddle to his imperious wife, and conceals this hostility by drinking too much;
• Ransom (Chris Evan), Linda and Richard’s only son, a smug, spoiled and aimless trust fund kid and defiant black sheep who scoffs at everybody else’s hypocrisy;
• Joni (Toni Collette), Harlan’s mantra-chanting, chakra-enhanced daughter-in-law by a long-deceased son, who visibly struggles to prop up her New Age lifestyle business; and
• Walt (Michael Shannon), Harlan’s younger son, who runs his father’s publishing business as little more than an impotent figurehead, since he has absolutely no authority over anything.
Less likely, but certainly worth consideration, are:
• Meg (Katherine Langford), Joni’s privileged daughter and perpetual college student, who thoroughly enjoys higher education on her grandfather’s dime;
• Donna (Riki Lindhome), Walt’s uptight wife, determined to hang around long enough to see her husband appropriately rewarded for his years of faithful publishing stewardship; and
• Jacob (Jaeden Martell), Walt and Donna’s rebellious son, a prep school, alt-right Internet troll, dismissed by just about everybody as a “creepy little Nazi: and
• Greatnana Wanetta (K Callan), the clan’s eldest member — nobody knows for sure just how old — who sits, stares and silently catalogs. Or perhaps she long ago slid into helpless senility.
Then there’s Marta (Ana de Armas), Harlan’s former caregiver, the hard-working daughter of undocumented immigrants. Her humble origins notwithstanding, everybody else has long regarded her as “one of the family,” likely because they all fear — as the one person Harlan seemed to trust — she knows unpleasant things about them.
More intriguingly, Marta suffers from what the hilariously loquacious Blanc defines — with a completely straight face — as “a regurgitative reaction to mistruthing.” In other words, whenever Marta fibs, large or small, she uncontrollably vomits. She’s therefore a walking lie detector, albeit only with respect to what she personally knows: still quite handy for a visiting private investigator.
Rian Johnson’s cheeky narrative unfolds in three distinct acts, the first focusing on individual interviews by Elliott and Wagner, with Blanc observing from across the room. He initially remains silent, barely noticed by the first few suspects; when Linda shows up, she confronts him directly, and we get our initial taste of Craig’s dialectic patter and cheerful savoir faire.
Act Two finds Blanc on the hunt, with Marta at his side; Act Three … well, that would be telling.
Curtis, Don Johnson and Collette have the most fun one-upping each other, in terms of catty hauteur and mutual antipathy. Shannon’s Walt isn’t in their league; he’s more a whining victim, apt to be humiliated by his father and siblings. We don’t see much of Evans’ Ransom for quite some time, although his fleeting appearance — on the night of his grandfather’s birthday bash — is explosive.
Stanfield’s Elliott and Segan’s Wagner make a great tag-team: the former trying to remain objective and practical, despite a rapidly increasing number of great motives for murder; the latter trying to minimize his fan-boy tendencies.
As sometimes is the case with large casts, a few characters are given very little to do. Lindhome’s Donna remains little more than wallpaper. More surprisingly is the fact that Martell also amounts to not much, despite the tantalizing promise of Jacob’s creepy tendency to eavesdrop.
De Armas delivers the most captivating performance, because Marta is the sole “normal” individual here: an uncomplicated young woman simply trying to survive in an uncomfortable environment of classism and casual racism. She’s also acutely aware that calling too much attention to herself could jeopardize her family’s ability to remain in the United States. De Armas makes her earnest, savvy and diplomatic: far wiser than most of the Thrombey clan likely assumes.
Production designer David Crank had a great time with the many rooms in the massive Thrombey mansion: perhaps none better than Harlan’s attic retreat, laden with shelves groaning beneath books, and approached solely via a narrow staircase from below. This captivating workspace notwithstanding, every single room is chockablock with weird treasures and objets d’art, most of which are a little bit “off.”
The most arresting eyebrow-raiser, however, is the opulent chair in the grand ballroom, backed by a circular fan of scores upon scores of sharp knives and other weapons.
I suspect this film targets the Masterpiece Theater crowd, given that the approach — and most of the performances — are rather arch and mannered. And, at 130 minutes, Rian Johnson’s leisurely approach is somewhat self-indulgent; the twists and turns notwithstanding, he should have let editor Bob Ducsay tighten things a bit.
That said, this film certainly will be embraced by those who enjoyed the opulent, all-star Poirot romps that followed in the wake of 1974’s Murder on the Orient Express. Rian Johnson unerringly riffs the genre without ever demeaning it; there’s no question his larkish mystery is intended to be as respectful as the aforementioned Gosford Park.
That’s honorable company to keep.
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