In Bruges -- Review

After watching Martin McDonagh's instant classic, In Bruges, I'm tempted to revise my list of the best films of 2008, again. I'm not sure whether or not I did it once already on this hallowed blog, because I think I named Slumdog Millionaire my favorite film of last year -- with the remarkable Let the Right One In coming in an extremely close second -- during Kmart and yours truly's prematurely, lamentably aborted PKast from January, but I have the memory of a centenarian when I'm drinking beer and soju on a Sunday afternoon, so who's to know for sure? (I suppose I could, you know, check the archives, Bruce, but what fun would that be?) Regardless, I'm quite tempted to take a mulligan and say that In Bruges, criminally overlooked during Oscar season, is last year's best picture. I would do so in a heartbeat if it weren't for Slumdog and LTROI being equally refreshing, so let's just say that lists are dumb and I have a fanboy's obsessive love for all three. Then let's huff paint thinner until we go blind.

Call this more an endorsement than an actual review if you want*, but I think the reason the film had such an impact on me is because, much like the flauntingly depraved The Midnight Meat Train, which I watched last night and love on a very different level (but love is still love, and a man's love for his daughter or his wife or his mint-condition copy of The Amazing Spider-Man #300 can, paradoxically, be both equal and completely different), I knew close to nothing about the plot going in. I'll save you the common gripe of bemoaning film trailers and the Internet as they relate to spoiling movies, but if you consider some of your own experiences of being surprised by movie watching's version of a party favor**, you might see where I'm coming from. To use another analogy, it's never a bad thing to know what you've ordered at a restaurant and get just that; but go to a three-star Michelin restaurant and ask the head chef to impress you, and you may just find yourself having one of the best meals of your life, even if it does consist of snails and pigeons.

Such was my initial aversion to In Bruges. Because it stars Colin Farrel, an actor whom I liked when I first saw him onscreen in Minority Report but whom I gradually grew to dislike, mostly because his pretty boy lifestyle distracted from and hurt his other image: that of a very gifted actor. Make no mistake, despite what you may think about Farrel's perceived cockiness, he is one of the most talented young(ish) actors in Hollywood today, his work in In Bruges a testament to that. Farrel gives a performance for the ages as Ray, a hitman plagued by a guilty conscience, and, as one notable film critic whose name escapes me at the moment has mentioned, Farrel's amazing work in the film might be credited to his character being allowed to speak like COLIN FARREL instead of him having to put on a faux-American accent. Whether or not that's true, Farrel sticks the landing as the film's most sympathetic and likable character, and it doesn't hurt that Ray is the one with the funniest dialogue. (Mark my words, this movie will be quoted for decades. I'm hard pressed to name a current film with such precise dialogue and comic timing. Well, maybe Dear Zachary.)

And whereas I had to learn to stop worrying and love the Colin Farrel, Brendan Gleason, that rotund mound of pink meat and blond eyebrows, fits like a glove (or, if you want to make things messy, a faithful cum-sock) as Ken, Ray's partner in crime and the perfect balance to Ray's neurotic behavior. To quote the movie, Ray is a big fat fucking retarded fucking black girl on a see-saw, and Ken is his elephant, God bless him. The dichotomy between Ken as a professional murderer and Ken as a The Nicest Man Who Ever Lived is one of the many beautiful contradictions that make In Bruges classic black comedy, and Gleason captures it so seemingly effortlessly that, word to Bill Murray, it's going to take some time before people start looking past the obvious and see that Gleason as Ken is one of the finest, most nuanced acting performances we've seen in a while. A few years back -- two, I think -- I name dropped Tom Wilkinson and Brian Cox as two actors (Richard Jenkins is another) who keep an understated weight on film, and damn me for forgetting Brendan Gleason. The man has invisible presence, if I can be so bold to create such a term. (I think I can. I'm sure I have it in me.)

Rounding out the cast is...well, to tell you that would be to spoil one of the surprises I had while watching the film, although if you glance for even a second at the DVD cover you'll see his name in big, bold letters. I didn't, which is another reason why In Bruges was such a treat for me, another being that Legs and I picked up a copy of it on the street in Korea and watched it with my sister -- Chloe, you might remember her -- after landing in Canada. Then we watched it again with my brother -- Fedor, whom, I'm sure you remember, has a scar on his left ankle that looks like a fish hook and who once drank seven bottles of soju while in a hospital waiting room -- and a cult classic, at least as how it relates to Clan Forbes, was born.

You might not have the same impact upon seeing In Bruges that I had; in fact, you may be quick to criticize it for its style, which is overt but also shy, if that makes any sense...But that might be because you don't have a soul, and in which case I feel for you, because, well, you know.


* What else is new?

** Is it only in Canada that they're called loot bags? Wikipedia, that bastion of truth, offers no insight.