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Please, don't make me watch this again. I stopped taking notes after five minutes because what I was seeing was so unKubrickian that any commentary I'd have would refer by default to the Film-Noir primer that Kubrick must have kept at his elbow throughout this production. Sure, as straight out-and-out Film-Noir it's a step above a good many others, but that's nothing to recommend a predictable story that eschews subtle inclinations, the predictable cinematography that takes over after the initial credits (the footage of race horses being led to the track is disappointingly promising), and the fairly lame acting (but really with what did these guys have to work). The Killing reads like the, "Hey, Hollywood, look at me," movie that it is, tracking a lower common denominator for some assured attention. With the exception of a few notable scenes, it's the pulp crime drama, comic novella with lurid overtones that teen boys had to hide so their parents wouldn't know they were reading "that trash." Yes, hints of black comedy strafe the graphics, but they're Kubrickian in-jokes, and the cinematographer and actors seem to have been left out in the cold about them. If Kubrick intended the film to be appreciated as black comedy, his split-vision attempt to satisfy a humorless, take-it-as-it-is Film-Noir audience called him to sacrifice too much. We can now laugh at the end scene in which the airport detectives overwhelm the camera as stark giants of destiny, and the gun in the violin case; but I don't laugh as there is little to suggest that the film be seen as anything other than a drive-in morality play, a lesson in how crime doesn't pay.
Hide the kid's eyes. The story begins with Johnny Clay, ex-con, having just finished implied conjugal relations with his faithful girlfriend who has waited for him all these years. Paint it in broad shades of black and white. She thinks she's ugly, undesirable. She's a no-confidence gal who has kept herself for her childhood sweetheart, the one guy she thinks would possibly have her, and doesn't she love him for it. Poor dear. This girl's going to be living lonely in a one-room apartment all her life. The one thing she'll have in her old age will be her memories of Johnny. Of Johnny Clay. Johnny, oh Johnny, if only you'd be satisfied with the love of a good woman, sighs the audience.
Johnny's planned, you see, a complex heist full of diversions at a horse racing track. His heist buddies seem for the most part to be regular Joes who, sick of being the low man on the totem pole, for one reason or another are willing to abandon lawful lifestyles for the bucks that buy the Haves the better life. One of those regular Joes is a bartender at the race track whose ill wife (cough cough) needs medical attention.
The weak link in the tight-lipped chain is track teller George Peatty. To counter the Heart of Gold Gal, he's got a wife who's a hard-edged floozie. George adores his pancake make-up goddess, the trophy of a short man who's out to prove his virility to himself and his friends, even if he's got to wear the maternal apron in the relationship. She slashes him continually with cutting remarks, but George is going to prove to her he's Big Stuff. They're going to be rich, rich, rich. He breaks his vow of silence to let her in on the secret. She, in turn, tells her boyfriend, Val.
Cutting back and forth between the race track and the heist and the preparation for it, we have unveiled for us in terse fashion the collection of scripts that are supposed to make it work, and those unexpected ones (unexpected to all but the audience) which wave the black flag of failure above everyone's heads. The strategy is so damn complex you can hear Johnny's brain struggling to keep the turgid details under control. There's the strong man who will start a drunken brawl and supposedly divert the race track guards away from the stairs which will take him to where the pot of gold is hidden. Better yet, the crowning diversion will be the assassination of one of the horses running the race. Yep. God knows how Johnny came up with the idea to have a hired gun shoot the horse from a nearby parking lot. But, hey, if you're caught, what kind of crime is shooting a horse?
There are three interesting scenes in the film. One does happen to be that in which the shooter waits in the parking lot to kill the horse. Half of his already received pay-off money looking like it's been sunk in a flashy convertible, Nikki arrives at the parking lot to discover it's closed. Looks like he's gonna have to do his best to make himself really, really obvious, convincing the black parking lot attendant to let him in 'cause he's a vet with a game leg or something. In fact, he treats the parking lot attendant so well, that this black guy is impressed and amazed. He'd polish his shoes for a grin and a pat on the head, that's how amazed he is at being treated as an equal (for ulterior gain, of course). He goes over to chat several times, until finally Nikki plays the racist in order to chase him off so he can go about his business of calling the screaming demons of the ASPCA down on his head. It's the race card that makes the scene, the surprise of dropping the equality ingredient into the hash. Catch a hint of that rose perfume? It's Lolita scenting the air already. One is reminded of the rich black comedy of the black bell hop, ignorant of Humbert Humbert's designs on the golden girl child, showing up with the extra cot that Humbert doesn't really want, and persistently refusing to get lost. No, you wanted the cot and it's the cot you'll have. No, sir, I'm not gonna get lost because I'm gonna come in and make sure you get the cot open. I'm going to ignore all your attempts to keep me quiet, to keep me from waking up Silas Marner's foster child, because I'm the side-man without a clue who's determined to make a fool of you.
Another wonderful scene is Sherry at her boyfriend's apartment, telling him about the heist. It's wonderful because it looks like static play scenery set in the middle of an au natural movie. Out the window is the dark urban landscape, squared-off black buildings with little squares of light for windows. I would have been content to pause the VCR there for the evening.
The third scene of note is near the end, when all has fallen apart, Johnny's hopes dashed, his hard-earned cash spread all over the tarmak of the airport because (a) his suitcase was too large for him to carry on the plane, and (b) a feisty little poodle ran in front of the cart carrying the luggage, causing the driver to swerve and the suitcase to fall to the ground. In profound shock, Johnny is led by his girlfriend out of the airport to hail a taxi. Poor Johnny's brain has called it quits. He's a zombie. A very uncharacteristic approach to take with a villain, to have them go catatonic on you.
Suspension of disbelief is called upon to ridiculous proportions. There's a scene in the film where each haphazard bullet finds its victim so neatly, if a Kubrickian smile showed its teeth in the background I'd accept the events as the absurd black comedy they're intended to be, but if Kubrick was grinning it was way way back in the corner with his hand over his mouth. I really do believe instead we're supposed to be shocked. A blood-hungry audience, we're supposed to drink in the sensational scene as plausible because it's righteous just deserts for the greedy.
The primary flaw with The Killing is, I think, that Kubrick couldn't take much of it seriously and did see the comic elements. He couldn't help slipping a bit of that black comedy in, or it inadvertantly found its way onto the screen because Kubrick's vision was split. But we don't have a Lolita or a Dr. Strangelove here. The Killing is intended to be received as a hard-boiled, grabbing criminal drama. If much of the film is actually a tongue-in-cheek jab at Film Noir, the comic banana peel doesn't work because Kubrick hurridly picked it up and threw it in the trash to be rid of the evidence.
Copyright © June 11, 2000 Idyllopus
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