Widows

Wow.  You can’t spell Widows without it.  It’s rare for a film that pushes past the two-hour mark (closer to 2:10, for those counting) to leave me wanting more, but that’s exactly what Steve McQueen’s elegant, impactful thriller did.  Another Neeson joint in the wake of Cold Pursuit (this won’t be a theme, maybe), but with him squarely in the Dern role of mostly-silent partner—aside from a volume-at-11 opening cross-cut, which 1) what an entrance and 2) is thankfully the first of many flourishes that McQueen uses to both dis-* and reorient the viewer throughout his twisty and sprawling, yet taut and quite tidy exercise in pulp.

(*Dis: You also can’t spell Widows without it.)

On that: “pulp” can be brandished as a pejorative, when really it shouldn’t—or, at least, needn’t have to be read as such.  Here, for example, it’s an absolute feature, not a bug.  The seediness with which the smallest of supporting players occupy space, even at the edges, is a hallmark of the genre.  Take one look at Kevin J. O’Connor (Benny himself!) as a paraplegic connection to the underbelly, whose deep-set eyes betray decades of misfortune.  Or Garrett Dillahunt, as a loyal but simple wheelman who nonetheless shows reserves of fortitude that his betters sorely lack.  Or Jacki Weaver and Jon Bernthal as one of the titular widows’ mother and husband, respectively (I think); both are abusive monsters, but you see from their intermittent affection exactly how she “graduated” (that’s not the word) from one to the next.

It’s fitting, though, that a name like Bernthal—and, make no mistake, a superb actor whether or not he’s portraying monsters—is out of the picture after ten minutes, since this truly is the ladies’ show*.  Viola Davis brings dignity with her wherever she goes, but her performance here also shows how that can either solidify into ice or be perceived as such outside of certain circles of society.  Michelle Rodriguez, fresh from the lucrative mines of Fast and Furious, turns in a surprisingly nuanced performance as one of those working-class compatriots often put off by her ad hoc crime boss.  Cynthia Erivo, who was terrific also in the terribly underrated Bad Times at the El Royale, pulls off the same trick here as there in a comparably minor role, in that she makes you assume she’s been on the big screen for years—when really, it’s been, uh ::checks notes:: Widows and El Royale (so far; watch her in 2019).  Last but not least, Elizabeth Debicki stands out as the aforementioned victim turned survivor, who routinely makes the most of everybody’s expecting less of her, both in the film and audience.

(*The screenplay, aptly enough, was penned by Gillian Flynn, of Gone Girl and Sharp Objects fame [or: infamy?].)

Honestly, the cast is uniformly great, the only false notes coming from unexpected sources, like Colin Farrell’s occasionally shaky Chicago accent (he’s otherwise predictably stellar) and Robert Duvall’s drifting eye-lines (although, frankly, that could be his character).  Daniel Kaluuya’s gaze, meanwhile, pierces without falter, and the roiling menace behind it makes you forget that he’s mostly played decent dudes.  His cousin and partner in crime-and-politics (redundant?) Brian Tyree Henry adds yet another notch to his ever-growing roster of remarkably disparate compelling characters, all of whom say twice as much with their eyes than anything else.  Between this, If Beale Street Could Talk, and Atlanta, the man needs some sort of goddamned trophy, already.  And Neeson, sparse as he is, delivers at least one terrific, entirely silent scene that should make the actor’s compilation roll for his inevitable Lifetime Achievement honor.

Tally it all up, and the chief complaint I can levy against the film is that, no doubt because of having so many characters (interesting, all) and threads in this tapestry—above all else, so much to say, on gender, of course, but also race, class, politics, police violence, you name it—that it can get overcrowded, and some faces and themes inevitably fade into the background.  But when everything weaves together in the climactic heist, the result is gripping and visceral, with at least one semi-comic curveball, and the intensity of that extreme opening sequence matched if not bested.  But it’s also one of the few films with a denouement that’s just as compelling—so much so, in fact, that it almost feels as if a scene or two is missing.  Then again, maybe I just wanted to spend some more time in this world, slick and cynical and wry and riveting as it is.

Also (Slight Spoilers Follow):

-One choice I especially liked about Robert Duvall’s political patriarch (if, again, not necessarily his performance) is how early on it’s established that his is a performative liberalism, as the erstwhile Democratic alderman starts dropping racial epithets as soon as the office door closes.  A lesser film would’ve made that into a “reveal,” and Widows has no such pretenses about its cynicism.

-Carrie Coon of the egregiously underseen Leftovers gets a largely thankless role, but makes the most of her limited screen-time as someone who’s clearly in over her head, as we learn, in a very different way than her fellow widows.  Then again, she’s also got some Avengers money coming her way, so, I guess things have a way of working out.