Butler's Cinema Scene

Jude Temple, Matthew McConaughey

“KILLER JOE”  My rating: B- (Opening Aug. 24 at the Glenwood Arts and Alamo Draft House)

102 minutes | MPAA Rating: NC-17

If a cough syrup-addicted John Waters made a film based on a pulp novel by Jim Thompson, the results might resemble “Killer Joe,” veteran director William Friedkin’s descent into murder and lust among Texas’ trailer-court trash set.

The film is a blood-splattered comedy of stupidity which, ironically, features a very smart performance by Matthew McConaughey, who in recent films (“Magic Mike,” “Bernie”) has been busy proving that when freed of stifling rom-com conventions he’s a freakin’ fine actor.

“Joe” is based on the stage play by Tracy Letts, who won a Pulitzer a few years back for his “August: Osage County.”

“Killer Joe,” though, is more akin to an earlier Letts play, “Bug,” a paranoid yarn about a couple in a seedy motel room who are convinced insects from a secret government experiment are breeding in their bodies.  Friedkin (“The Exorcist,” “The French Connection”) filmed “Bug” in2006; obviously he’s on Lett’s wavelength.

On a rain-soaked night young Chris Smith (Emile Hirsch) comes pounding on the windows  of the mobile home occupied by his father, Ansel (Thomas Haden Church), and his stepmother Sharla (Gina Gershon).  The latter, a slattern of the first order, answers the door naked from the waist down. This leads to a rousing exchange of insults.

Chris has run afoul of a nasty drug dealer and desperately needs money to pay off his debt.  Ansel, whose mental  processes are so slow  you can watch a thought creep up his face, is broke. But Chris has a plan.

Emile Hirsch

He has learned that his mother, Ansel’s ex, has a $50,000 life insurance policy. The beneficiary is Chris’ little sister, Dottie (Juno Temple), who lives with Ansel and Sharla.

Chris proposes hiring a killer to knock off his mom so that they can collect the money. All better.

The stupidity of this scheme is staggering. (For starters, ever tried to get a quick settlement from an insurance company about anything?) But Chris is gung ho to put wheels in motion, especially since he’s heard about a Dallas police detective named Joe Cooper who moonlights as an assassin.

McConaughey is “Killer” Joe, a blue-eyed Grim Reaper in black wearing cowboy accessories. Joe speaks softly, which only makes him more sinister. He’s at first tempted to dismiss Chris and Ansel as hopeless bozos, but then he gets a whiff of Dottie, a petite virginal blond who radiates Lolita-ish sexuality.  Before too long Joe has arranged for Dottie to be part of his benefits package.

It goes without saying that Chris’ scheme goes all wrong.

“Killer Joe” has moments of outrageous, bone-crunching mayhem (which no doubt contributed to the film’s NC-17 rating, although it looks like an R to me). Chris endures a brutal beating at the hands of the drug dealer’s thugs (a passage that allows Friedkin to step briefly outside the mobile home for a breathless chase).

Later Sharla is found to be less than forthright and has her nose flattened; perhaps this abuse of a female character particularly offended the MPAA ratings folk.

Much of “Killer Joe” is good nasty fun. But there’s nothing of import behind the dumb-as-dirt milieu and the violent eruptions, which leaves the whole enterprise feeling a bit vacant.

I suspect that on stage “Joe” is a visceral kick in the audience’s  collective gut. As was the case with many of Sam Shepard’s best plays, the no-holds-barred depiction of outrageous behavior can be quite liberating in the staid confines of a theater.

But it’s less effective in a film. After all, we’re accustomed to depictions of violence, nudity and other hot-button stuff on the big screen.  It loses some of its punch.

Still, the players fully embrace Letts’ bleak hilarity, making for a laugh-gasp-laugh-gasp experience. And Friedkin has made a surprisingly good looking film on a modest budget. It sure helped to have the great Caleb Deschanel (“The Black Stallion,” “The Passion of the Christ”) behind the camera.

| Robert W. Butler