I have been, increasingly and for many years, disgusted with the action film genre. Gone are the days when "action film" means that action takes place in FRONT of the camera so that we can see it.
In the parlance of this particular movie: whatever cunt was it decided we'd only know an action film if the camera was in constant motion, so ye not only can't falla the action, ye can't falla the story neither? was it the same fookin' fella who started cuttin' fight scenes in those short, close-up chops so a person can't see if it's that Bourne eejit or t'other one that's gettin' his pate knocked sidelong? and speakin' o' that, what mess of blind monkeys was it gave both Oscar and BAFTA to the spastic retard who edited that last Bourne rubbish? It's like if yer at a race an' you give the trophy to the fella who spun around in the most circles instead of the one who crossed the finish line. It's like a whole section of the filmmaking industry has got its collective head stuck up its collective arse.
All hail, then, Martin McDonagh. You gotta love a guy who errs on the side of lyricism in making his mobster film. There's Peckinpah in him: he's not scared by the weight of violence, nor is he cowed by poetical beauty or mixing the two together. He's as irreverent as Tarantino and far wittier. He loves his characters, loves telling a good story. This is his first full-length film, and my guess is that, after he's got a few more under his belt, he'll look back with regret on some of the scenes he left out or left in. By all means watch the deleted scenes on the disc. The impression they leave is that the original film was going to be a darker, more brooding observance of a young man who's committed a damning and unforgivable mistake following his fated path into hell and destruction, and it was lightened up along the way. No matter: the movie works as is.
McDonagh's biggest strength as maker of violent and very funny plays is that in every character, even the most corrupt, he sees the innocence, and likewise in the most innocent he sees the corruption. It's the secret ingredient that allows so intense a mixture of tragedy and comedy to work smoothly and without giving offense. In a McDonagh piece, the men who live by the strictest code are often the most violent, like the Ralph Fiennes character here, and the less morally certain the character is, the more relaxed and less apt to blow your head off.
Not that he toes the line when it comes to incorrectness. His targets are myriad. In this movie, retards (when's the last time you heard that word?) come into a lot of flack, as do Americans (after decking an American: "That's for John Lennon, you yankee fucking cunt,"), dwarves, gays, drinkers of half-pints ("one gay beer for my gay friend, one normal beer for me,"), militant non-smokers, fat people, priests, and every fookin' one else. Somehow it's all joyful and stumbling and just plain funny enough to be non-arrogant and non-offensive.
Most importantly, there's not a choppy bit of editing or nervous, jostly camera in the whole film. It flows easily and well, perhaps a bit slowly, but this is the final journey of a damned fellow into hell, and so the stateliness lends an air of reverence. The action is still there, and the violence has the weight of real violence for being in real time. Brendan Gleeson is an all-out champion, Ralph Fiennes is a prince among actors, and Colin Farrell has finally found a project worth his hard-working efforts. Because McDonagh was a playwright, this script has alongside its snappy dialogue actual visual themes running through it. Headlessness is one. The Day of Judgment is another. The Boschian endgame goes just up to the top without falling over it. It's funny, and sad, and well-photographed, and chilling truths are delivered in the same breaths as the funniest lines.
Here's hoping it revolutionizes a very weary old genre. Longer scenes! Stiller cameras! It's my new battle-cry: tripods for everyone! For God's sake, set the damn thing down!
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