This is a cinematic pairing that is so blindingly obvious
that it really should have happened before this point. Kristen Stewart and Chloë
Sevigny: Both indie darlings, both internationally seasoned, both chaotic queer
in presence, both utter joys to see in just about anything (hell, even
hindsight gives Stewart’s Bella a certain ironic pleasure). And when paired up
for a rather iconic piece of gory American folklore, along with a director who
got his feature-length kickstart with backing from Spectrevision… hell yeah, am
I excited that this finally got a release over here.
Then there’s Jamey Sheridan as Lizzie’s father Andrew, who
serves as the embodiment of the film’s more pointed statements as far as what
(potentially) drove Lizzie to do what she did. It’s hard to properly articulate
just how monstrous Andrew is as a character, from his patriarchal overdrive
when referring to basically anyone that isn’t himself, to the sexual abuse, to
the more general social abuse he inflicts.
It’s through Andrew’s presence within the narrative that the
film starts to weave a collection of observations that make Lizzie out to be
something of a ticking time bomb. Part of that is down to what she has to deal
with from her own family (a notion that makes her connection with Bridget hit
that much harder, as shelter against the dickcheese storm), but also because of
how her own mental state is shown. This film’s ambitions as a psycho-thriller,
rather than dipping into the abstract or even the hallucinatory to make its
mark, are a result of simply showing Lizzie as being victim to so many damn
heinocities that… well, it’s hard not to feel like there’s a reason why she did
what she did.
At least, that’s the theory I’m going with, and it’s here
where the film gets a tad muddled. While it definitely sets up a lot of impetus
for the 81 whacks we know Lizzie for, it also doesn’t make a definitive
statement as to what exactly pushed her to do it. Was it out of defence
of her lover? Was it out of defence of herself? Was it just the final straw on
top of likely years of mistreatment and misanthropy? In keeping with its
depiction of the court case that followed (where they admit in-film that there
aren’t that many records of what exactly was said), it pulls back from saying
outright what happened. It simply presents possibilities, the bulk of which
lead to a single conclusion.
As a result of this, and this feels especially weird to have
as a reaction, but the romance between Lizzie and Bridget winds up being more
compelling than anything to do with murder. Sure, the murders do show a lot of
literal and figurative naked truth that adds a certain dark feminine dimension
to all this (it manages to be sensationalist but not exploitative, a balancing
act that shouldn’t even be possible), but the point where all the condescension
and bigotry and just plain dickishness that Lizzie cops ends up becoming
poignant is as fuel for that relationship. The two of them being able to take
comfort in each other, and pretty much only each other, is quite
impactful and even makes the conclusion that much more bittersweet.
It's more than a little odd to see a film like this that almost
wants to misdirect the audience, as if it’s building to some big bombshell
about who really committed the murders… and then play the whole thing
straight anyway. I get the feeling that this didn’t quite make the statement it
planned to make, something driven home by how the conclusion ends up revealing
a certain upper-class privilege that sours things a bit. I mean, maybe the
relationship is meant to be the focal point, in which case well bloody
done because I genuinely think this is worth watching for that alone. I won’t
make any declarations as to historical accuracy with this, but even though the
main story left me a bit cold, I got exactly what I wanted out of it anyway.
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