There's a curious mood to this odd film that belies the grim, grisly subject matter. It's almost a waking dream - a gauzy, hazy, half conscious remembrance of something vaguely unpleasant. The film takes such deliberate time in revealing the magnitude of the killer's pathology that it eventually feels as inevitable as a lazy canoe ride down river towards an unseen waterfall. What's most disturbing, most curious is that the fateful waterfall never arrives. The film just idly slips away into the murky mist of our most primal, most unnamed terrors. Owen Wilson's laconic demeanor and syrupy drawl effectively paint a compelling picture of a desperately disconnected but amiable loner. His eternally forlorn expressions are matched by an insistently melancholic soundtrack creating a tone that's unusually restrained and subdued for a genre that normally revels in overblown melodramatic spectacle. With so much technology today meticulously and cavalierly contriving obscenely graphic, hyper real vistas of nightmarish hell, it's actually refreshing to encounter a film that relies almost exclusively on the power of suggestion to implant deep within our psyches its special horror. Be patient and this nasty little movie will whisper some horribly dark voodoo into your soul.
Review of The Minus Man
