<< Back 8/14/02 Picture Show By Gary Carden Boondock Saints Director: Troy Duffy Featuring: Willem Dafoe, Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus Rating: R Well, dear film-lovers, if you should happen to watch “Boondock Saints” at some point in the future, let me make one recommendation: Don’t take it seriously. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t enjoyable. It is. Well, the first time anyway. And “enjoyable” certainly doesn’t mean “significant” or “meaningful.” “Boondock Saints” is good trash masquerading as courageous social commentary, like a Twinkie dressed up as a nutritious health food. However, it does send a mixed message and, outwardly, it may appear a serious work. Trust me, it isn’t. It is fun, though. The trailers on “Boondock Saints” are masterpieces of deception. Brothers. Killers. Saints. The advertising sequences show us two handsome (but pleasingly scruffy) Irish lads wielding an impressive arsenal of weapons as they stalk through the mean streets of Boston looking for scum — Russian and Italian drug lords, that is. The images are provocative and appealing — the McManus brothers (allegedly twins) are a kind of divine retribution, a duo dispatched by a weary God who no longer believes than Boston is capable of purging itself through its inept and essentially corrupt justice system. No, it is time for fire and sword ... or better yet, Glocks and machine guns, and maybe a Bowie knife or two. Conner and Murphy are appealing lads, bedecked with clunky Irish (Celtic?) crosses about their necks; their hands tattooed with mystical Latin words: “Truth” and “Justice” — reminiscent of Robert Mitchem’s “Love” and “Hate” tattoos in “Night of the Hunter.” And the dialogue is peppered with puns and smug references to “Rambo” and Charles Bronson films, all wrapped in a kind of quasi-religious vengeance chant — the kind of excessive rant that makes the hair stand up on your neck even while you are feeling embarrassment at the way you are being manipulated ... Like I said, great fun as long as you don’t take it seriously. And it is hard to take the bloodshed seriously. “Boondock Saints” is awash with gore — a kind of baptismal drenching that oozes, splatters and rains everywhere. Conner and Murphy are painted with it, either from wounds (superficial) or from the back-wash of their own massacres. Eventually, slaughter becomes meaningless and some of the massacres acquire a kind of graceful chorography, like an old Hollywood musical — an idea that has been beautifully exploited by John Woo’s Killer, over a decade ago. But, wait! I’m neglecting the “star” of this film, Willem Dafoe. I have a theory about Dafoe’s role in this movie. At some point, I think the director said, “Listen, Bill, I’m going to give you free rein here. What do you feel like doing?” Dafoe responds, “Well, you know those old Alec Guiness films where he played a dozen characters? I’d like to do that, only all of the characters are part of one personality.” And the director say, “Have at it, Bill.” And he does. Dafoe is a special FBI agent, Paul Smecker, a man with a near-mythical reputation for solving crimes. He is Sherlock Holmes in a Saville Row suit — a man who can walk into an alley reeking with carnage, turn on his Walkman, listen to an aria while he ponders the crime scene in a manner that resembles a mystical experience ... and then suddenly, he orders his underlings to see if any of the tenants in the nearby buildings have reported plumbing problems. The crime is solved. But what has the plumbing got to do with it? Dafoe looks mildly irritated and explains ... (I think.) Smecker is also flamboyantly gay and occasionally dresses as a woman — all in the course of duty, of course! He makes a hell of a hooker in stiletto heels and I’m still stunned from watching him do some deep throat kissing with a mafia thug. And as he pirouettes and spins through investigations, he poses, cavorts and mimics. He even breaks into a parody of “Riverdance” at one point ... oh, film lovers, you have to see it to believe it. At one point, as Dafoe is investigating the murder of nine crime figures, he suddenly announces that the irrational methods used in the massacre were inspired by ... bad television. Whoever committed the crimes has watched too many television crime shows that are replete with silent assassins crawling through the labyrinth of a heating system where they drop down nylon ropes into a room of crime czars ... and he is right. He even “recreates” crimes by directing them ... like the conductor of a symphony orchestra. As he directs, the crime is magically enacted around him. At the end of the simulation, Dafoe is exhausted and disheveled, like Arturo Toscanini, when he concludes Beethoven’s Ninth. Amazing. There is a nice twist in Boondock Saints. Instead of becoming the nemesis of the McManus brothers, special agent Smecker becomes increasingly sympathetic to their mission. He likes what they are doing. Instead of arresting them, he begins to thwart his own investigation, and finally even becomes a party to the “tide of retribution.” Even the media becomes sympathetic and announces that there has been no public outcry about the bloodshed because many of Boston’s inhabitants are breathing sighs of relief. The film culminates in an over-the-top sequence that is both ghastly and comic. When the beleaguered mafia arranges for the release of the dreaded “Il Duce,” an assassin so feared he is kept in chains and under constant surveillance in prison ... (shades of Hannibal Lecter). Are you ready for this? He arrives to kill the McManus brothers in a shootout that resembles the finale of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” only to discover ... can it be? Yes, it is! These two mischievous lads are his sons! Oh, and here is Dada! After a fitting reunion, the three pledge themselves to continued slaughter. Off the three assassins go to a Boston courtroom where the mafia kingpin is about to be released. Despite overwhelming evidence of his guilt, the verdict is a foregone conclusion. “Another John Gotti,” says the press. But then, McManus and sons arrive and proceed to evict the judge and the jury and then pass sentence: bang! bang! bang. Outside, a stunned jury mingles with the press and TV interviewers quiz the public. “How do you feel about what happened here?” “I like it!” says John Q. Public. “Kill the rest of them!” Let me repeat, this is not a good movie. It is a strange mix of parody, superficial social criticism and farce. It is an obvious vehicle for the Irish twins and the incomparable Willem Dafoe. Apparently, it is a winning combination. “Boondock Saints” has several flourishing websites and a growing gaggle of “cult fans” who are given to mimicking the style, dress and wit of the major characters. Oh, yes. Long overcoats, denim, tattoos and Celtic crosses. Further, there are plans for a sequel. If you can stand it, the websites have chat rooms where the film’s addicts exchange trivia and learn where to acquire the McManus trappings. At present, a growing number of eager fans are acquiring guns, “just like the ones that Murphy and Conner have!” Allegedly, they are available on e-Bay. Does that make you a little nervous?