Martin McDonagh's newest film might also be his best, a razor-sharp black comedy that delves deep into the hearts of people in pain. While never quite as absurdly funny as Seven Psychopaths, and not as fabulously [insert descriptor here] as In Bruges, this movie is surprising in its heart, its depth, and its timeliness. And here I thought Coco would be the timeliest movie this Thanksgiving weekend.
Mildred (Frances McDormand in one of the best screen performances this year), grieving after the unsolved rape and murder of her daughter seven months prior, rents three rundown billboards near her home in rural Missouri. Infuriated with the apparent apathy of the local police force, she uses the billboards to openly criticize their incompetence and presumably spur them to action, though that is never explicit. The town quickly turns on her, largely because Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson) is dying of cancer, and Mildred and her son (Lucas Hedges) are harassed and threatened with arson and violence.
Mildred remains firm in her convictions, despite everyone else's hatred. Her righteous anger is not always sympathetic, however, which is where McDonagh hammers home this little morality play. While it is exciting, funny, and somewhat empowering to see a strong, unapologetic woman in her position, her sense of justice is decidedly skewed; though we might applaud, for example, when she attacks her sadistic dentist, we cannot help but cringe because we see her as a cannon starting to come loose. Mirroring this anti-hero is her foil, a racist and homophobic officer named Dixon who takes immense pleasure in "allegedly" torturing suspects. His psychotic anger breaks the surface early on, and only intensifies in his hatred of Mildred and her disrespect for authority, as he sees it. His stupid, evil anger is an exact opposite of Mildred's -- he brutalizes the young man who leased the billboards to Mildred as well as his girlfriend -- until, that is, it isn't. Dixon undergoes a radical dramatic shift that suddenly aims for vigilantism.
Three Billboards, in addition to being an idiosyncratic satire of rural law and prejudices, is also a riveting drama about the morality of anger. Of course we start sympathizing with Mildred, but as the other characters slowly show their cards, we begin to suspect we've been playing the wrong hand. Anger begets violence, bigotry begets violence, and it's all funny until the violence begets worse violence. McDonagh, in an incredibly risky move to play it safe (figure out that paradox), ultimately reveals no sense of justice. By the end, no one is humbled or gracious. No justice has been served, though it may be argued that some of the characters have reached a better understanding of each other. And there is no real resolution. There is only the suggestion that violence may come again, at the whim of whoever is angriest for the best reason.
These themes feel like a clarion call for America's heartland at a time when such righteous anger burns in many of our hearts. The film is even titled after a textual phenomenon that so many of us hate, but so many of us re-enact via posts on social media for our own corporate brands. It's speaking to us about the absurdity we reveal in ourselves and the violence we can do with our words, about our choice to ignore other people's stories and feelings, and about the dissolution of both legality and morality in an age when vigilantism is lionized.
And it's entertaining as hell.
IMDb: Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
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