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Set in Montana's Big Sky country, shot in Utah, lensed by Eric Alan Edwards (cinematographer of
My Own Private Idaho)--no wonder it's hard to tell where
Clay Pigeons lives, or where it's going. A Ridley Scott protégé previously at home in commercials and videos, debuting director David Dobkin aims to deliver us into the blackly comedic badlands of neo-noir, territory mined by the likes of
Red Rock West and
Fargo.
Pigeons launches strongly, with several cruel turns of the screw. Out target-shooting, Clay Birdwell (Joaquin Phoenix) is hit with the news that his best pal knows he's been boffing his
ur-slut wife (Georgina Cates) and could take Clay out on the spot, but chooses a creepier revenge--committing suicide in order to frame the guy who's cuckolded him. Naturally, Clay covers up the mess, thereby opening the film's can of very nasty worms. A slick, fast-talking cowboy (Vince Vaughn)--the funhouse-mirror-opposite of Phoenix's sweet, slow farmboy--turns up, and a string of ugly murders begins to play out. Once Vaughn's Lester Long is on the scene, spreading his psychotically giggling bonhomie, Dobkin's skin-deep riff on Hitchcock's
Strangers on a Train pretty much belongs to him. The rest of the cast looks more or less like clay pigeons set up by a scattershot script: exceptions include the always-estimable Scott Wilson who transforms his caricature-prone Sheriff Mooney into a character of nuanced humanity, and Janeane Garofalo, as an urban-hip FBI agent, whose single-chick sarcasm goes down in flames when Lester unholsters those big guns of come-hither charm. John Lurie of Lounge Lizards fame contributes a distinctive score, but Elvis Presley acts as the film's patron saint in more ways than one:
Clay Pigeons' sexiest, scariest wet work is choreographed to "It's Now or Never."
--Kathleen Murphy
From The New Yorker
In this dark Western, small-town life starts to pick up when a hayseed named Clay (Joaquin Phoenix) scores with his best friend's wife and finds a new fishing buddy in a serial killer (Vince Vaughn) who dresses like Howdy Doody. Clay figures out that his colorful acquaintance is responsible for stocking the lake with corpses, but by then it's too late. What follows is a Hitchcockian frame-up that makes Clay's head swim as he sits in jail trying to figure out how the kid with the ten-gallon hat put this over on him. Sorting out the sanguinary details is an F.B.I. agent (Janeane Garofalo) whose deadpan charm gives the movie's tortured plot a lift. The supporting cast of yokels commit plenty of redneck faux pas, but the witty script is weighed down by the director David Dobkin's heavy hand. -Jay Fielden
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker