The Killer Inside Me (2010)
The Killer Inside Me(USA) Directed by Michael Winterbottom Written by John Curran Starring Casey Affleck; Kate Hudson; Jessica Alba; Elias Koteas; Ned Beatty; Simon Baker; Bill Pullman; Tom Bower; Jay R. Ferguson
Michael Winterbottom is one of modern cinema’s most interesting directors, though defining his perspective as a filmmaker proves no easy task. One reason for this is that he keeps floating from one seemingly disparate project to another, the eclectic list of films on his growing resume characterized by little more than a decided lack of discernible linkage. Here he takes on Jim Thompson’s first person novel, a book that has been adapted before (a little seen 1976 version directed by Burt Kennedy and starring Stacey Keach).
Casey Affleck does not spring to mind as an obvious choice for the lead, small town deputy sheriff Lou Ford, but stranger still are the casting of Kate Hudson as girfriend Amy, and Jessica Alba as prostitute Joyce, with neither actress exactly known for art house drama roles. Alba looks beautiful and manages to get through her scenes, while Hudson reminds us that once upon a time (see Almost Famous)she actually acted. Affleck is fittingly disaffected as Ford, doing a version of a character who is nothing if not polite and amiable on the surface, but with the exception of the sly, slightly deranged smile that occasionally slips across his lips, shows us his dark nature only in the spankings he enjoys administering in bed, and later in bursts of violence that arise from the depths of his soul, from what he terms in the novel as “the sickness”. Speaking of which, Affleck’s Lou Ford is little like the one of the novel, a man perceived by the local citizenry as so dimwitted as to be nearly above suspicion.
Lou Ford is a reader who listens to classical music. With a history of childhood abuse (as victim and victimizer), we are shown glimpses of the source of his sexual depravity through flashbacks that are interposed with a developing sadomasochistic relationship with the gorgeous Joyce, and his ongoing one with local good girl Amy Z, which is also tinged with Ford’s predilection toward rough sex. Affleck’s Ford is a weasley sort, and despite the bits of narration, we simply cannot connect to him in the way it is possible to as reader. Thompson’s Ford sucks us in with his warped logic and unreliable depiction of events, making his acts, as abhorrent as they may be, seem somehow vaguely plausible. Winterbottom’s/Affleck’s Ford is almost entirely unlikeable, his boyish looks, reedy voice, and overall countenance translating as just as whiny and sneaky as Affleck’s other Ford character, Robert, in The Assasination of the Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Somehow, the matter-of-fact nature of the sociopathic protagonist’s actions that set the tone in the printed version gets lost, or at least altered, in this film account.
Set in West Texas in the late fifties (the book was published in 1952), though filmed in Oklahoma and New Mexico, the soundtrack is composed mostly of upbeat period country tunes, juxtaposed, often too closely, with the action on screen. Regardless of whether the music is intended as ironic, or even offered as some sort of inside joke/meta commentary, it fails to add much to the aforementioned tone, which plays as flat as Lou Ford’s demeanor, punctuated only by the extreme moments of sex and graphic violence, with one beating scene in particular standing out for it’s brutal, unflinching refusal to look away.
Winterbottom and screenwriter Curran have managed to remain faithful to Thompson’s source novel, though this is perhaps one of the main issues here. The versatile British director has made a career out of mixing elements of documentary and fiction, but has never established a specific point of view as an artist, and similarly there is perhaps a failure to express a commanding one here. Though one can appreciate fidelity to original material, especially an iconic piece of pulp such as this (though opinions of its literary merit vary), it is possible to stay true when adapting another’s work and still miss out on the essence of what made the piece special in the first place.
Though appealingly shot, the film fails to hit the shadowy notes of black and white period noirs, or even of a brilliantly rendered neo-noir like The Coen Brothers Blood Simple, which had a wicked sense of humor related to the genre it was mirroring. Here, the noir is played straight, losing some of Thompson’s playfulness, the standout feature being the graphic violence and rough sex on display. This modern handling plays in direct opposition to the period setting and otherwise straightforward telling, though in and of itself fails to make much of a statement and/or elevate the material.
In a piece that would seem rife for some tasty character turns, none of the minor players manage to stand out, with the possible exception of Bill Pullman’s Billy Boy Walker, who shows up a little late to have much of an effect. In fact, Simon Baker’s Howard Hendricks and (an over the top) Elias Koteas’ Joe Rothman, present to question and prod Ford about his dastardly deeds, prove as annoying (or worse, dull) to the audience as they presumably are to the man they are intent on provoking. One can recall M. Emmett Walsh as the detective in Blood Simple as an example of an actor relishing the playing of a sleazy misanthrope.
The end is something of a departure, and similar touches throughout the rest of the film might have dually set the groundwork for such a denouement, while assisting in formulating a cinematic interpretation that ascended beyond a mere well-handled visual representation of the source.