It seems like through Wes Anderson’s filmography, while his style has moved towards the realm of extreme formalism, the stories he employs it to tell are spacing out into these maximalist folds. His worlds contain seemingly boundless possibilities, unconcerned by form or structure the characters bounce from event to event as strung along by some dream logic. Whatever sense exists in Anderson’s dialogue, and it is easily malleable, buffeted by strange winds and desires, serves to chase the characters to some new episode. Always unexpected, always inventive.
So much of the time Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri feels great. Then one of its black characters enters a scene. It’s rough seeing an able movie so deftly shoot itself in the foot, cos as elegant and taut as Martin McDonagh’s plotting and dialogue feels he is totally unable to write people of colour at all.
I’ve been saying a lot recently that the past few months have been a context killer for movies, but then that’s always a more extreme version of what I been saying ever since Donny got elected. All of a sudden our good intentions count for nothing because they’re being projected into a reality where they ain’t good enough no more. I’m sure that Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris are good people, and they made a film which comes down on the right side, but it is so bland and inoffensive as to be literally nothing.
There’s this thing when musicians make movies, or movie-makers become musicians. They decide they might as well combine their artistic pursuits and score their own films.
Oh man, this is way better than I was expecting. Like I thought it’s be some second tier gothic period thriller from a lesser known Daphne du Maurier title but heck, this one actually got some go to it.