Film Reviews

Thriller Blue Ruin Will Work You Raw

Everything in the opening scenes of Jeremy Saulnier's nerve-wracking revenge drama Blue Ruin is the color of a bruise, from the ocean to the bullet-hole-pocked 1996 Pontiac Bonneville that homeless near-mute Dwight (Macon Blair) calls home. It's fitting. Dwight has never overcome the pain of his parents' murder when he was a boy. He traces his daily struggles — breaking into homes to bathe, digging through trash at the amusement park for old hamburgers, sleeping under a battered blue tarp — back to their death. (His sister is a happy suburban mom, so we suspect his brain must have already been on the brink.) On the day a local cop informs him that the murderer, Wade Cleland (Sandy Barnett), will be released from prison, Dwight reconnects the car's battery and drives south to kill him.

Immediately, writer-director Saulnier pressures us to root for the premeditated murder of a man we've never met for a crime that isn't fully revealed until the second act. He teases out information, and we let him, in part because the bearded, scrawny Dwight has the messianic aura of a victim born to suffer for other's sins.

Saulnier shot Blue Ruin for $38,000. His lead is his best friend from sixth grade; a centerpiece showdown takes place in his mother's house. There's so little dialogue it's as though Saulnier feared he'd have to pay $1 a word. But the film looks like $1 million and plays like gangbusters. Besides a slow, regenerative stretch before the climax designed to give both Dwight and the audience a chance to catch our breaths, it's lip-bitingly tense, not just because of what Dwight aims to do, but because we can't quite believe that this untrained wannabe killer can actually get it done.

As an action film — which in small bursts it is — Blue Ruin is disquieting and raw. We can't identify with the Schwarzeneggers and Diesels of revenge cinema, those athletes equally handy with a gun and a bad quip. The near-silent Blair also seems alien from us. When he shaves his beard to blend in, he looks even stranger. But on the scale between him and Arnie, most viewers are probably more like Dwight than we'd prefer to admit. He has no gadgets, no guns, not even a plan. He's instinctual and unprepared. It's terrifying to watch him try to kill because we know we couldn't do better ourselves, and terrifying to realize how abnormal "normal" fight scenes are. What if all movie brawls looked less like the bastard child of a chopped salad and the ballet, and more like the desperate flailings of real life? Would we still watch the screen and dream, "I wish I could do that"?

Slowly, Saulnier gets around to Blue Ruin's unglamourous message that revenge is inglorious and sad. Dwight punishes and gets punished. He is shot by arrows, drools with pain and finds himself slathered in blood, only some of it his own. And then we realize that his battle with Wade is just another skirmish in a family feud that's bigger than both of them, as though modern life is still just a half-step ahead of the Hatfields and McCoys.

The Cleland clan look like Hatfield-esque rednecks, which gives us permission to attack. Hillbilly yokels have made life hard on protagonists ever since Deliverance. But as Dwight stalks their family, we get glimpses of their own humanity and realize that Saulnier is using our knee-jerk snobbery against us like a shiv. We're still rooting for Dwight, but mainly to figure out how to restore peace. The emergent villain is a gun nut (Devin Ratray) with little loyalty for keeping anyone alive. When Dwight asks him for help, he's overjoyed to pack a goodie bag of ammunition. He gets a vicarious thrill from murder. So do we — we've bought our tickets, after all — but boy, does Saulnier make us pay double.

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Amy Nicholson was chief film critic at LA Weekly from 2013 to 2016. Her work also appeared in the other Voice Media Group publications – DenverWestword, Phoenix New Times, Miami New Times, Broward-Palm Beach New Times, Houston Press, Dallas Observer and OC Weekly – and in VMG’s film partner, the Village Voice.

Nicholson’s criticism was recognized by the Los Angeles Press Club and the Association of Alternative Newsmedia. Her first book, Tom Cruise: Anatomy of an Actor, was published in 2014 by Cahiers du Cinema.