The titular orange billboards don’t leave the town of Ebbing, Missouri. The black lettering pleading “How come, Chief Willoughby?” against a piercing blue midwestern sky. It is a shout into America for justice.
In a shout for justice there is power. We’ve seen this especially throughout the course of 2017— the power of women flooding the National Mall after Trump’s inauguration, these same women leading the #MeToo movement and becoming Time magazine’s People of the Year: The Silence Breakers. The power of counter-protesters bombarding white supremacists in Charlottesville. The power of art itself calling attention to injustice in America (Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN. and Jordan Peele’s Get Out were the most buzzed-about pieces of music and film this year, respectively). We shout when we see injustice; Mildred (Frances McDormand), then, is shouting at a neglectful police force when she erects her first billboard in her small town of Ebbing, Missouri, to bring attention to the untouched abduction, rape, and murder case of her daughter. The billboard is solemn and damning: RAPED WHILE DYING. Three words on a billboard, this wooden staple of roadside Americana, punches in its brevity the state of our nation with as much breathless commentary as a tweet. Simple, enough, and seen by everybody. That’s America for you. Naturally, when Mildred reveals her billboards, the town is shaken up, mostly on the account of Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson), who is the only member of the force singled out. The controversy lies in the fact that Willoughby is a genuinely good man who is dying of pancreatic cancer as he fathers his two little girls. Why is Mildred so insistent on calling him out specifically? “It’s better to get him on the case before he croaks, right?” There is a tendency in American people to turn everything into a spectacle for our own entertainment. Hence, the residents of Ebbing, Missouri are geared up for a showdown between their resident crazy woman scorned and their good cop. But it’s not that simple. Of course it’s not that simple. No life is simple when it’s filled with unspeakable pain, as both Mildred and Willoughby’s are. This is the greatest strength of Three Billboards— its ability to find empathy and compassion underneath the leather-tough exteriors of McDormand’s and Harrelson’s characters. We find that compassion and hold it out for the characters. The characters find that compassion and hold it out for each other. There comes an understanding in this and a reaffirmation of human kindness. It’s truly beautiful and, for that, it deserves the acclaim that it’s been getting. Perhaps that’s what makes it all the more infuriating when other characters of Three Billboards don’t get the same nuanced treatment that Mildred and Willoughby are given. There is a commanding presence of a character in Officer Jason Dixon (played by Sam Rockwell, whose performance won the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama), a violently racist and homophobic cop who, (after some events that would spoil the movie if I revealed them), changes the error of his ways. This character’s redemption arc has certainly rubbed audiences the wrong way, as the passivity of Dixon’s redemption almost makes his bigotry excusable and not a big deal. I want to say very quickly that I think there is something hopeful about the fact that Dixon can change at all. In a climate wherein bigotry has become mainstream, I think Dixon’s redemption is refreshing. It gives me hope to see that one can reform and live his life according to his resolutions. Great works of art are full of deeply flawed characters. But here’s the thing: It’s strongly implied that Dixon has abused his authority as a cop in the past by torturing a black person. That’s no small thing— it’s a very real matter. In a movie so centered on empathy and compassion, shouldn’t we get to hear the voices of the person who was tortured and the black community around him? We don’t, and it’s more than frustrating; it’s inconsiderate and inconsistent. If Three Billboards is about the empathy and compassion that lies in beaten-down people, it neglects to give its black characters the same treatment. We get to see Mildred’s struggle as a mourning mother and abused wife. We get to see Willoughby’s own body oppressing him in his cancer diagnosis. Three Billboards brilliantly uses characterization to get to the root of a compassion between Mildred and Willoughby, but there is hardly a meaningful conversation between a black character and Dixon— or just about any white character. In a movie full of complex characterization, there is very little in Dixon and none in the people he’s brutalized. I really liked most of Three Billboards. I thought most of it was incredibly witty, poignant, and brilliantly acted through and through. The encompassing themes were lovely. Several moments took my breath away. Had it not tackled more than it was willing to treat well, I think it could be a perfect film. The controversy exploding around this movie, however, is undoubtedly warranted. Regarding the issue of race, screenwriter Mark McDonagh just about does what Get Out warns against— instead of treating black people like complex human beings, they are objectified and used as pawns for the progression of their white counterparts. I think McDonagh wanted to make impactful points about racial injustice in America, but it falls so flat. Not only is the remainder of this movie far better than these scenes, but…we got Get Out this year, guys, and we’re going to get so much more. We’re getting a conversation in the media that hasn’t gone this far before. And now, during Hollywood’s award season, a staple of glitzy Americana, these daring and unafraid films punch in their brevity the state of our nation with as much breathless commentary as a tweet. Simple, enough, and seen by everybody. That’s America for you. For more information on the backlash of Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri, read Nate Jones's piece for Vulture "Oscars 2018: Your Guide to the 'Three Billboards' Backlash.'
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To celebrate Pride Month, MOVIES WITH MADELYN will spotlight a different LGBTQ+ film each week. Each film is a first-time viewing for me. I read Patricia Highsmith’s novel The Price of Salt (later published as Carol) last summer. Though I enjoyed it enough, I didn’t understand why— aside from its social and historical significance, which is no small feat— people held it in such high regard. But a year has passed, I’m older, and I’ve finally gotten around to watching Carol, Todd Haynes’ film adaptation of Highsmith’s novel. I regret that it took an interpretation other than the original text to open my eyes to such a lovely story, but something must have happened in the translation from text to film that made me fall in love with it. Because, truly, Carol is a very visual film, heavily reliant on its quiet photography to express the longing the film almost bursts with. This is quite appropriate considering that our protagonist, Therese Belivet (a captivating Rooney Mara) is an aspiring photographer. We follow her as she begins a job at a department store, where she meets the entrancing Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett, in the role she was born for). Carol is buying a train-set for her daughter, Therese helps her with the order, and very soon young Therese realizes she is in love with Carol. What follows is a stunning love affair, one that must be hushed, reluctant to come out of hiding, full of painful yearning. In the middle of a messy divorce and custody battle, Carol takes much of the affair on the road, as a brief getaway, with Therese by her side. Even on the road there’s a quietness, but there’s a sort of excitement in this kind of clandestine love, especially before Carol and Therese explicitly make their feelings known to each other. Yes, Haynes perfectly bottles the startling potential energy which precedes a romance. Anyone who has ever been in love knows this feeling, and here it’s uncanny, it’s scintillating. We see this love and its buildup through Therese’s photographic perspective. Carol was shot with super 16 mm film, which gives the film a dreamy warmth. It also captures the perceptiveness one gains when they’re in the presence of someone they love very much—when Carol and Therese go out for the first time, the camera brilliantly lets go of its reins and focuses on Carol’s lips, the rush of a car moving, Carol’s hands. It’s a sort of blur that expresses love’s excitement and beauty in both the minutely detailed and abstractly conceptual, simultaneously. I adored it.
There’s a lot Therese and Carol have to figure out: will Carol gain custody of her daughter? Will Carol’s husband use Therese against her? And what about Therese and her correspondence with the men in her life— can that simply blow over? These are deftly executed driving points in the plot, but the thing that stuck with me most about this movie is love, love, love, in its excitement, its danger, and, ultimately, its uniquely human bliss. |
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