The title is undeniably poetic. And a pain in the butt to say and type.
London-born writer-director Martin McDonagh, best known until now for In Bruges (and for being the kid brother of writer-director John Michael McDonagh), is a man of many words. He probably dies a little when impatient folk refer to his opus as Three Billboards. Suck it up, Martin. Three Billboards is great.
This is the rollicking, agonising tale of Mildred Hayes (Frances McDormand), who wants to see a horrific crime solved, partly to absolve her own feelings of guilt. On a series of tatty billboards, Mildred takes aim at the chief of police Willoughby (Woody Harrelson). She blames him for the fact that, in the seven months since the rape and murder of her teenage daughter Angela no one has been arrested.
As far as Willoughby is concerned, Mildred’s started a war. His ethically-compromised acolyte Dixon (Sam Rockwell) hurls himself into battle. As do the majority of people in Ebbing, including Angela’s dad and a Catholic priest. Mildred — mad and rad — hits back with harsh words, a dentist’s drill, some Molotov cocktails and (when all else fails) her right knee. In quieter moments she enjoys anthropomorphising her furry pink slippers. She’s not some kind of surrogate male. She’s just... Mildred.
Female characters over the age of 50 rarely dominate a movie and, when they do, it’s because they’re royal or played by women we associate with royalty (Judi Dench, Helen Mirren and Meryl Streep).
Though an Oscar-winner, McDormand doesn’t have that kind of profile. She was magnetic in Laurel Canyon (an indie movie that no one went to see). She was exquisitely moving in Olive Kitteridge (a drama that only TV audiences got to watch). Hopefully she’ll never be overlooked again. McDormand’s face resembles a damaged coral reef and every inch of it is precious.
The film’s own textures are crisp by day, velvety by night (it’s hard to believe the whole thing was made for $15 million). Meanwhile, Carter Burwell’s soundtrack is jauntily idiosyncratic. We get two versions of Townes Van Zandt’s Buckskin Stallion Blues. Nice.
Is Three Billboards flawless? Nope. Turns out Mildred isn’t up against a corrupt system, just a few bad apples. In Ebbing, to reverse the old saying, scratch a racist and a liberal bleeds. Such “twists”, meant to be provocative, are simply implausible. Black comedy leads to a whitewash.
Luckily, the good stuff outweighs the bad. Like Kill Bill’s Beatrix Kiddo, Mildred is a mother courage for our times. When her son calls her an “old c***”, she snaps back, “I’m not old.” To the very last beat, she’s wry-conic.
