Remember those Encyclopedia Brown books we used to read as kids, in which the identity of the culprit could be ascertained before the end of each story by the major clue planted in plain sight earlier in the chapter? If nothing else, Clint Eastwood’s Mystic River reminded me of those books, albeit magnified to an extreme degree. The killer in this atmospheric murder-mystery is fairly easy to peg, but for those who might not catch on right away, a major clue is dropped. And then another clue. And then another… and another. By the end of the film, the mystery has been so thoroughly demystified that even Inspector Clouseau would have no trouble coming across as Sherlock Holmes with this case.
The obviousness of the enterprise is a real shame, because in many other regards, Mystic River looks as if it could have been one of the year’s best pictures. It all starts with Eastwood, who was once heralded by no less than Orson Welles as the most underrated director in America (and keep in mind that Welles died before Eastwood made Unforgiven). A classically trained director — and therefore increasingly underappreciated by the new breed of film fans schooled on the rapid edits of young guns like Quentin Tarantino and (God save the medium) Michael Bay — Eastwood exhibits a sober, wholly unpretentious style; clearly, here’s one guy who could never be accused of patronizing or pandering to audiences. Even when his films don’t connect with most viewers — as was the case with last year’s so-so Blood Work or his criminally overlooked adaptation of Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil — it’s never hard to appreciate the artistry that goes into most of his projects.
With Mystic River, there’s more to appreciate than just his artistry. Working from a suitably moody screenplay by Brian Helgeland (adapted from Dennis Lehane’s novel) and backed by a powerhouse cast that completely trusts the man in charge, Eastwood has fashioned a compulsively watchable drama about three childhood friends brought together years later by a tragedy committed in the Boston neighborhood in which they grew up. Jimmy Markum (Sean Penn) may have a violent past (and may still maintain shady connections), but he fiercely loves his oldest daughter (Songcatcher‘s Emmy Rossum) and is shattered when she’s found murdered. One of Jimmy’s former pals, Sean Devine (Kevin Bacon), is the detective assigned to the case (along with his cocky partner Whitey Powers, amusingly played by Laurence Fishburne), while the other former chum, Dave Boyle (Tim Robbins), emerges as one of the leading suspects in the investigation, largely because of a childhood incident that has left him permanently scarred.
The performances are immaculate, including supporting turns by Marcia Gay Harden as Dave’s suspicious wife and Laura Linney as Jimmy’s faithful spouse (her Lady Macbeth scene is downright chilling). And Helgeland’s script addresses several noteworthy themes, including the extent to which a husband or wife can truly know the person they married, as well as the way the sins of the past can snake their way into the present and leave it in ruins. When placed alongside these meaty issues, the baldness of the mystery feels even more of a cheat (not having read the book, though, I couldn’t say whether the blame rests more with Helgeland’s adaptation or Lehane’s original text).
Still, despite a nagging sensation about its shortcomings, the acting and the atmospherics continue to haunt me. It’s almost certain, then, that Mystic River will remain the year’s best disappointment.
This article appears in Oct 15-21, 2003.
