Review of Blood Simple (1985) by Cody Y — 26 Nov 2011

It reminds me of Escher in that the shape holds only through perspective. In this case, the perspective is more psychological than optical. So much of the movie runs against what you would do in a given situation, yet tension balances with inevitable answers. Cuts work around exchanges that are painfully incomplete, leaving key players with assumptions that drive the plot further and further into contortion. Blood Simple's pretzel follows film noir contours in style while adhering to a certain rationality. I'm reminded of the Coens' later movie No Country for Old Men, but also of the Italian horrormeister Dario Argento. One shot is inspired by the cover of The Shining perhaps, another by the famous Michaelangelo painting of God and Adam in the Sistine Chapel, another by the ending of Blade Runner.

The horrible parts of this film make sense upon reflection, and their bizarre quality points to ironies of guilt (specifically, romantic irony, for sometimes a viewer's special knowledge would excuse murder). In short, the movie floats along a needlepoint of incredulity and fateful retribution. Every character is in fact guilty, and the physics of the story at any time can be predicted by knowledge of who on screen is guiltiest. The point should not be exaggerated, though: I was constantly in suspense.

Watching this debut makes the point to me that art is often what has never been seen. The Coen brothers and their team tell a story that is not so terribly interesting on the surface, until you realize that in this particular configuration, with the characters knowing what they know and assuming what anyone might assume, it is suddenly a very particular voicing of otherwise faded elements, suddenly burning with life, the seemingly always renewable promise of Cain and Abel, and Antony and Cleopatra. They tell their story made of predictable elements by interposing what has never been seen, nooks and crannies that are so improbable and yet so aesthetically coherent with the rest that their origin seems irrelevant. I can understand why directors like Quentin Tarantino become obsessed with cinema that others consider detritus, so full of invention because it doesn't cost much money and it doesn't make much money, at which point what is there to lose? And you take these little bits of shock value and work them together in a harmony or careful discord, sampling from near and far, and before you know it, it scarcely matters whether a shot or an idea was original or copied, because it fits its present home so beautifully.