Starring Tilda Swinton, John C. Reilly. Written by Lynne Ramsay, Rory Kinnear from the novel by Lionel Shriver. Directed by Lynne Ramsay. 14A. 112 min. Opens Feb. 10.
One common problem with adapting books into films is that material that may have been fresh on the page can seem far more familiar when put on screen. Much like the way John Hillcoat struggled to make his adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road distinguishable from the umpteen post-apocalyptic survival stories that had come before it, director Lynne Ramsay is unable to prevent her version of Lionel Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin from getting mired in the most tired conventions of another movie subgenre: thrillers about parents who discover that their offspring is bad to the bone.
Not even a typically deft performance by Tilda Swinton does much to elevate Ramsay’s effort, which frequently resorts to heavy-handed tactics and ham-fisted clichés better suited to a knockoff of The Omen. Swinton stars as Eva, a travel writer turned suburban mother who struggles to understand how she could’ve raised a killer. Played as a teen by Ezra Miller, Kevin is already in prison when the story begins, after having terrorized his town with a Columbine-like murder spree. But flashbacks to Kevin’s time as a colicky infant, mean-spirited toddler and animal-torturing adolescent suggest that there was very little Eva could’ve done to steer him from his fate.
Though she suffers beautifully, Swinton is hampered at nearly every turn by the film’s many missteps. The incongruous casting of John C. Reilly as Kevin’s father is one major issue, but what’s more grating is the relentlessly sour view of Middle America, presented as the kind of deadening void that ought to produce millions of Kevins rather than just a few.
Since Ramsay displayed such a strong clarity of intent with her earlier features Ratcatcher and Morvern Callar, it’s a surprise that her latest is so muddled—it’s as if the director is unable to decide whether to take a leaner, more rarefied approach or fully embrace the conventions and paint the screen red. The unsatisfying result gets stuck between arthouse and grindhouse.
