Seven Psychopaths
Martin McDonagh’s “Seven Psychopaths” is about what I would expect from the writer-director of “In Bruges,” which was another dark comedy about violent people. His newer film, however, is also a fascinating study in screenwriting and storytelling, as Marty (Colin Farrell, in another superb lead performance for McDonagh, following “In Bruges”) tries to write a screenplay called, “The Seven Psychopaths.” Right now, he only has the title, and an idea for one psychopath.
I really don’t want to go into more than that, because part of this film’s pleasure is what we don’t see coming throughout the story. I will say, the film begins with two hitmen being killed by a serial killer known as the Jack of Diamonds, and continues with a crime boss (Woody Harrellson) going on a rampage when his dog is lost; an actor friend of Marty’s (Sam Rockwell) who really wants to help him on the script; and a husband and wife (Christopher Walken and Linda Bright Clay) dealing with her bout with breast cancer. In ways both unexpected and kind of ridiculous, all of these characters find their way into Marty’s life, and in his story.
One of the things that kept repeating in my mind during “Seven Psychopaths” was how much of a debt McDonagh, not just in this film, but “In Bruges,” owes to Quentin Tarantino. It reminded me of all of those films that came out in the year or two after “Pulp Fiction” that seemed to rip off the film’s ideas of cinematic narrative, but couldn’t replicate the tone. This film nails the tone by making the characters feel wholly original, as if we’ve never seen anyone like them before, and giving them personalities that not only drive the narrative, but also, make us care about what’s going on. A big part of that is due to McDonagh’s rich screenplay, but the actors bring it home, with stellar work all around (Rockwell and Walken, in particular, deliver fantastic, award-worthy work that’s as good as anything they’ve ever done), making “Seven Psychopaths” a wickedly good time.
