On a first viewing, I found Paul Schrader’s latest trawl through America’s scuzzy underbelly to be bracingly unwholesome. Shot, alternately, in brooding black and white and a luridly oversaturated palette reminiscent of a rack of cheap synthetic lingerie, it had a disreputable swagger. A second viewing emphasises the film’s more unlikable qualities – the smirking nihilism; the grimly casual objectification of women and the flippant approach to violent death as a punchline.
The film opens with a prologue featuring Mad Dog (Willem Dafoe, all sinewy neediness). After wheedling his way into the home of his ex for one last night, he snaps and does something highly regrettable. The jaunty soundtrack is at odds with Mad Dog’s spree of violence, a trope that was already slightly suspect when Tarantino made it his own 15 years ago. We are then introduced to Troy (Nicolas Cage, skeevy in a baby blue blazer), recently released from prison and looking for a way to make some easy cash. His sidekicks are Mad Dog, and bullet-headed hard man Diesel (Christopher Matthew Cook).
There’s certainly a blast of adrenalised energy to Schrader’s directing – he practically takes us inside Mad Dog’s vibrating nervous system as the latest hit of coke powers him up. The framing is neat – the gang’s posturing is constantly undermined: by a pensioner with an oxygen mask, by adverts for Taylor Swift. And the score, a blend of strip-joint sleaze and local radio cheese, works like a conspiratorial wink. But the plotting is muddy and the snickering amorality leaves a bad taste.
