The Iceman
(2012)
It says
something that Michael Shannon’s most sympathetic role in ages finds him
playing a notorious hit man. Both in terms of typecasting and the favourable view
director/co-writer Ariel Vromen takes of his subject. Those familiar with the
case have found much to fault in this account of Richard Kuklinski’s
activities, both factually and with regard to characterisation. But, leaving
aside concerns over authenticity for a moment, this is a well-crafted,
well-performed and engrossing piece of work. Having just witnessed the OTT
glorification of all things ‘70s in American
Hustle, The Iceman is refreshingly
low key in its milieu. Instead, it’s the succession of sometimes spuriously recognisable
faces popping up in a string of cameos that proves a sometimes distracting experience
(a scenario that was likely all about favours and financing).
The end
credits of the movie announce that it is based on The Iceman: The True Story of a Cold-Blooded Killer by Anthony
Bruno and the HBO documentary Conversations
with a Killer, but many of the criticisms of Vromen’s approach relate to his
relatively sympathetic portrait of a man who appeared to bear many of the
traits of the classic serial killer. Here Kuklinski is a loving family man with
a code that prevents him from killing women and children. We learn he first
murdered at a young age (and that his brother is also in prison for murder) and
engaged in animal torture, but this has the distance of off-screen history.
Vromen works his screenplay (with Morgan Land) into a place where others are
much more dastardly than the noble assassin. Most notably Ray Liotta’s
despicable mob boss (one of the bigger surprises is that, for a picture
evidently playing fast and loose with the facts, there is no cathartic pay off
to this plot thread). Sure, Kuklinski kills lots of people and dismembers them
in a bathtub, with the cool efficiency of the local butcher, but we don’t
really get to see much of this. Aside aside from a montage of kills just after
he is taken on, his business is mostly off-screen.
Vromen is
more concerned with Kuklinski’s domestic and career woes. So wife Deborah
(Winona Ryder, her most substantial role in a good few years and she more than
delivers) is blissfully, and then not so blissfully, unaware of her husband’s
double life. When they first meet he tells her he’s dubbing cartoons for Disney
when he’s actually working on porn movies. Later she unquestioningly believes
the story that he works in currency exchange. It seems a little too good to be
true that, aside from one monumental breakdown scene when Michael goes the full
Shannon, Kuklinski is positioned as a well-meaning father and dutiful provider.
He repeatedly announces that his family is the one thing he cares about and
also repeatedly reacts with extreme prejudice towards anyone posing a threat to
this precious environment.
So, reading
after the fact that his wife was the victim of his possessive violence from the
first and lived in terror of him, it’s easy to understand the opprobrium some
feel towards this movie (at the same time, with regard to the extent of
Kuklinski’s notoriety, many including the police and FBI suggested his
self-aggrandising account of his deeds was prone to extensive exaggeration).
The end titles, announcing that he never saw his family again after he was
incarcerated, are probably more illustrative than their attendance of his
trial. As it stands, you can’t help but come out on his side when heavies like
Liotta and Davi threaten his nearest and dearest. It might be a gross
distortion, but Vromen has cleverly loaded the deck.
It’s
certainly the case that some of the plot threads don’t really wash, even knowing
virtually nothing of the facts behind the case. Liotta, always a reliable
heavy, has Ray Demeo oozing threats to Kuklinski one moment then whinily attempting
to get out of killing useless chum Rosenthal the next. It doesn’t help that
Rosenthal is played by David Schwimmer; you can fully believe in Schwimmer as a
loser (he’s had years of practice on Friends),
and he sports a ‘70s ‘tache and tracksuit with some degree of flair, but taking
out a couple of drug dealers? Nah. The unfortunate consequence of some of the starry-eyed
casting is that you’re invested in a scene for the wrong reasons. Schwimmer
being blown away raises a chuckle, but nnot nearly so much as James Franco
pleading for his life. His contribution elicits only an “Oh look, it’s the
ubiquitous James Franco!” And relief when Kuklinski shoots him. Elsewhere, Stephen Dorff isn’t nearly
impressive enough of stature or presence to convince as Kuklinskli’s
incarcerated older brother.
Making up
for the weak or unintentionally amusing decisions are some astute ones. I
mentioned Noonie, and this is the best she’s been in years, more than holding
her own against Shannnon. Davi just has to walk on and do the Davi thing, he
does it so well. John Ventimiglia of The
Sopranas feels authentically dangerous as Liota’s right-hand man. But
stealing the movie is Chris Evans’ co-assassin Mr Freezy, a longhaired
psychopath whose control centre is the ice cream van he drives around. It’s a sobering realisation
that the Franco was earmarked for this role until family matters forced him to
take a smaller one. Evans is so good, so sleazy and irredeemable (we see him screaming
at his son on Christmas Day, taking meetings in a porn cinema) you want to see
the movie about this guy (who may
well be a less sanitised representation of the actual Iceman type). There’s
even a larger-than-life wit to his first appearance, as ACME-style he blows up
the entire floor of an apartment building where both he and Kuklinski have been
engaged for a hit. If Vromen had engaged more with this tonality, he might have
laid himself less open to charges of misrepresentation; if you can see a streak
of Looney Tunes absurdity running
through the picture, fidelity concerns are given context.
Shannon,
severe-faced and brooding, can’t match Evans box-of-tricks performance (it may
have done his career some good, but Captain
America is the worst straight jacket that could be enforced on an actor of
Evans’ talents). He gets the odd moment of pitch-black humour (“Don’t take any crap from any nuns” he
tells his daughter; “Yeah it can” he
responds to an unsuspecting victim who pronounces that life can be “very fucking random sometimes”) and the
sight of him wearing a cardigan or using a beeper has some ironic cachet
(somehow, he’s also allowed to wear shades in court). The only problem is, it
currently feels as if; you’ve seen one Shannon role at this point, you’ve seen
them all. Can he ever surprise against the way he did in Revolutionary Road?
Even
absenting myself from the case-against arguments in respect of its divergence
from the true story (although where you go with a tale so full of alleged deeds
rather than facts is questionable; Confessions
of a Dangerous Mind territory?), The
Iceman is no classic-in-waiting. But it’s well-made picture and has an
acute awareness of how to successfully manipulate its audience (Kuklinski
doesn’t even kill the cat, so he can’t be
that bad!) It’s also a lot of fun just for the star spotting of the
supporting roles, even the less successful turns.
***1/2