Ain’t Them Bodies
Saints, the feature debut of editor/cinematographer David Lowery and owner
of the year’s most amazing title, is the kind of movie that you can’t talk
about without sounding at least a little pretentious. It’s the kind of movie
that invites descriptive phrases like “lyrical” and “atmospheric” from those
who adore it and “derivative” and “languid” from those who don’t. In short,
it’s a Film with a capital “f”; whether that’s a good or bad thing depends on
who you are or, more specifically, how partial you are to copious lens flare
and long shots.
As it
turns out, both descriptions are somewhat true. On the one hand, the story
itself, following two young lovers after he takes the blame for a police
officer’s death, isn’t anything special; you can clearly see the influence of
old-fashioned Westerns and ‘70s-era crime dramas such as Badlands and Bonnie and Clyde,
with a sprinkling of Homer’s The Odyssey
thrown in for good measure. The film functions more as an homage to those
classic genres than as an attempt to subvert them, adhering fairly close to
time-honored tropes like that of the enigmatic, morally ambiguous outsider and
the steely-eyed lawman (though in this case, the latter figure is represented not
by Ben Foster’s kindly police officer but by Keith Carradine’s menacing criminal-turned-guardian).
Not a whole lot happens in the movie. Lowery, like a certain reclusive auteur
to whom he’s been frequently compared, is more interested in mood than plot or
character development.
Yet by
the time Bob Muldoon, the lovesick convict played by Casey Affleck, breaks out
of prison, I was mesmerized. It’s like wading through a poem: at first, it
seems a bit too elusive, too subdued, but after a while, you feel yourself
getting lost in the rhythm of the film, the way it seems to flow from scene to
scene without hesitation, the tension buried beneath scenes of routine and
tranquility so quiet that you don’t realize it’s there until it builds to a
violent crescendo. If nothing else, Lowery is an expert at creating atmosphere.
As captured by cinematographer Bradford Young, the Texas landscape is gorgeous,
bathed in sunlight and dust, golden fields of wheat stretching to the horizon,
but also desolate and just the slightest bit sinister. The characters mostly
talk in low drawls and clipped sentences as though perpetually afraid of being
overheard or of revealing too much; watching them, you get the sense of a town
rich in local history and tradition, secluded from the outside world and
shrouded in secrecy. Despite the faint aura of romanticism, of nostalgia for a
long-lost era, the setting feels authentic and detailed, its grungy sparseness
more reminiscent of film noir than the sweeping grandeur of your prototypical
Western. And even when there’s a lull in the plot, Daniel Hart’s exquisite,
melancholy pulse-pounder of a score, one of the most thrilling and idiosyncratic
I’ve heard in a while, keeps the suspense alive.
At a
brisk 96 minutes, Ain’t Them Bodies Saints
provides a refreshing break from the two-and-a-half-plus hour blockbusters that
dominated the summer season. When the end credits rolled, however, I couldn’t
help but feel it was almost too
short. While the characters are compelling enough as they are, largely thanks
to the all-around solid cast, we never find out much about them, which is the
main reason why they don’t quite transcend the boundaries of archetypes. Lowery
hints at a wealth of backstory that I would have loved to see more of – namely,
Bob and Ruth’s crime spree and Bob’s relationship with Sweetie, a bartender who
briefly harbors him after he escapes from jail. As much as I welcome the short
running time, it’s hard not to wonder if Lowery couldn’t have spared just a few
more minutes to develop the characters and their relationships further.
None of
that is to diminish the general excellence of the performances, especially
those of Casey Affleck and Rooney Mara. With his angular face, impish smirk and
trademark hoarse voice, Affleck is impeccably cast as Bob. He exudes the sleazy
magnetism of a swindler, able to command a room despite his not-imposing
stature, visibly searching at all times for ways to manipulate the situation to
his advantage. Yet behind the dead-eyed glower and understated menace, there’s a
hint of desperation that makes you believe he’d risk everything to reunite with
the woman he loves. The introverted Mara offers a nice complement to Affleck’s spontaneity,
her Ruth representing the film’s emotional center. At first glance, she seems elfin,
almost timid, but her intense, haunted stare carries the weight of a dark past,
of inner torment and repressed savagery. Despite her waiflike appearance, she
is as much of a survivor as Bob and just as capable of cruelty. Almost
unrecognizable beneath his bushy mustache, Ben Foster gives an unexpectedly
restrained performance as a cop who develops a tentative yet friendly
relationship with Ruth and her young daughter, but the true standout among the
supporting actors is Carradine, who puts a twist on the stereotypical gruff
mentor figure by injecting Skerritt with subtle, world-weary tenderness beneath
his stony façade.
It’s
this compassion that ultimately elevates the movie above your average genre flick,
the way Lowery infuses even the most violent scenes with an awareness of the
characters’ basic humanity. Counter to its gritty locale and inevitable, tragic
conclusion, Ain’t Them Bodies Saints is
life-affirming and even hopeful, the rare crime drama that values love and
redemption over some cynical ideal of “justice” in retribution. These people
are not evil so much as forlorn, a collection of souls fighting for their right
to exist in this lonely corner of the world.
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