Unforgettably twisted Texas noir about a money grab scheme that goes tits up all over the place. This is black-humored, blood-splattered southern weirdness on a Joe R. Lansdale level. Everybody dances with the devil here, including the audience.
A trailer trash drug dealer (Emile Hirsch) decides to kill his own mother so he can collect the life insurance money and pay off a debt to some guys whose idea of a friendly reminder is pounding his face until it looks like a cherry pie that fell from a twenty-story window. Enter Matthew McConaughey, in a landmark performance (this character is his Frank Booth) as a scarily slick Dallas police detective who’s a hit man on the side. He’s the only character here who doesn’t have mashed potatoes for brains, but he’s got several screws loose of his own, mostly when it comes to sex and violence. The drug dealer doesn’t have anywhere close to the killer’s $25,000 fee, payable in advance, so McConaughey decides to take the poor guy’s sexy young sister (22 year old Juno Temple) as a retainer. She’s a big-eyed, creamy-skinned blonde who makes you glad that God invented little cut-off jean shorts. She looks like she tastes like fresh peaches all over. Her body won’t quit, but her mind often does. She’s not stupid, but likely an undiagnosed schizophrenic. Non sequiturs and strangely poetic observations constantly fly out of her like exotic butterflies and McConaughey’s so horned up over her that he doesn’t mind.
Everything about this scheme looks good to go—until it all goes wrong. In a noir, double-crossings, misunderstandings, and the bumblings of a desperate man will ruin every plan every time.
It’s a great film and a spectacular display of vitality from 75 year old director William Friedkin (adapting the play by Tracy Letts). The man can still push envelopes. His vision is fierce. The creepy sex content here offended people right away and earned this an NC-17 rating. Meanwhile, Friedkin’s bursts of violence are harsh and unnerving. In most movies, when a character takes a beating, they heal up in five minutes so the actor can still look pretty. For Friedkin though, even a simple punch in the face is frightening. Bones crack, cartilage pops, blood pours, and the wounds fester over the whole film. It’s an ugly world here. Juno Temple’s frequently nude body is about the only beautiful thing in it.
The seediest parts of Dallas, TX make up the setting, but this was actually shot in New Orleans. I’m a Dallas native and Friedkin, and cinematographer Caleb Deschanel, fooled me all the way. As I watched it, I thought for sure that they filmed this around Harry Hines and Northwest Highway, a bleak stretch of the city lined with pawn shops, carpeted with discarded needles and rotgut bottles, and once famous for its cluster of less than legitimate massage parlors.