The Frozen Ground
(2013)
Does John Cusack have troubles with the taxman, on the scale
of Nicolas Cage and Val Kilmer? An actor who used to appear in a couple of
movies a year showed up in seven during 2013, and has another eight pencilled
for 2014. What gives, John? Nicolas Cage meanwhile, whose wigmaker also appears
to have fallen on hard times, seems to be curtailing the quantity if not the
dubious quality. So the two of them together, realising the vision of first-time
director Scott Walker, didn’t bode well. The results bear this out, which is especially
unfortunate as Walker’s subject matter had the potential for a gripping piece
of work.
The Frozen Ground
is based on the 13-year killing spree of Robert Hansen, outwardly a respectable
family man and member of the community, but whose rap sheet testified to a
history of criminal activity and violence against women. Hansen abducted, raped
and murdered at least 17 women. A hunter, he would fly his victims out to the
Alaskan wilderness where he shot and buried them. It’s a grisly tale, the sort
of material one could imagine David Fincher casting a meticulous eye over (he
does adore his serial killers, does David). Scott Walker is most definitely
David Fincher. He may have the eye for a compelling story, but neither his
script nor direction are up to the challenge of translating it to screen.
While Walker hits the essential beats of the tale, he also
makes a right botch of Hollywood-ising it in all the wrong places. His attempts
to amp up traditional thriller elements are never less than risible. This is particularly
ironic, as he announces with great sincerity that this is Cindy Paulson’s story
and ends the movie with a roll call of all Hansen’s (known) victims. This would
be a nice touch if it the movie weren’t so ham-fisted and straight-to-video in
its dramatic content.
Vanessa Hudgens does a tolerable job as panda-eyed Paulson,
but she’s saddled with a character required to repeatedly put herself in harm’s
way so as to maximise the tension. Are we really supposed to believe that
Hansen hired a heavy (Justified’s
Brad William Henke) to dispose of Paulson? Has Walker managed to convince
himself he’s telling her story, complete with Fiddy Cent as Paulson’s pimp? The
attempts to enliven the interrogation of Hansen are no better, with the crucial
evidence of Hansen’s map (showing the sites he flew his victims to) introduced
as a sudden revelatory moment. “I’ve got it! That’s what these little “X”s
mean!” Hansen’s eventual spilling of the beans is toe-curlingly inept as
devised and staged.
There’s little to commend him for in terms of the other characters
either. There’s zero insight into Hansen, the hows and whys. He may as well be
the standard issue boogeyman, despite assurances that we would be presented
with the opposite. Cusack is okay, but just being subdued and glowering is no
substitute for motivation. Cage’s Sergeant Jack Halcombe is standard issue
Cage. He’s fine (I’ll big up Cage in any role; I’m fully aware of the brickbats
he takes but I find him enormously entertaining, even when the enjoyment may be
inadvertent on his part), but Halcombe is as wafer-thin as Nic’s syrup. He even
has a wife (Radha Mitchell) ragging on him who then comes round to his way of
thinking when she sees how important his case is. Poor Mitchell; her relocation
from Oz has all gone a bit wrong. Also popping up uneventfully are Dean Norris
(playing a cop!) and Kevin Dunn (playing a lieutenant; virtually the same role
as in True Detective, but not nearly
so auspiciously).
Even less assured are Walker’s stylistic flourishes. He appropriates
handheld camera as if it’s going out of fashion. There are few directors with
the assuredness to use handheld well. Paul Greengrass is one, so much so that
his name is virtually synonymous with shakycam. Walker attempts no visual
gymnastics, but his technique is horribly distracting. His camera moves and darts
without rhyme or reason, an approach bereft of any understanding of the dramatic
integrity of a scene and how it fits into the film as a whole. Close-up of a
hand, a face, move the camera randomly to suggest import or momentum, cut; stir
and repeat. If it looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing as a storyteller,
I’d suggest that’s because he doesn’t. There’s a nice shot with an ethereal moose
wandering the city, but it’s an ill-fitting affectation.
As straight-to-video fare goes, this is probably about what
you’d expect. But it’s the sadder testament that lingers. Two stars reduced to
slumming it in rote roles (is it really 17 years since Con Air?) and a true story executed in an at best mechanical and at
worst borderline inept fashion. The morbid fascination of the crimes ensures The Frozen Ground holds interest, but
Walker’s floundering take guarantees it will be another decade before anyone
goes near Hansen’s story again and attempts to do it the justice.
**1/2
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