Dead Man’s Shoes, 2004. Directed by Shane Meadows, written by Meadows, Paddy Considine and Paul Fraser. Starring Considine, Gary Stretch, Toby Kebbell, Jo Hartley, Seamus O’Neill, Stuart Wolfenden, Paul Sadot, Paul Hurstfield, Emily Aston, George Newton, and Neil Bell.
Available pretty much everywhere on DVD.
If my memory serves me correctly, it used to be that Hollywood bestowed the gift of double-features on us lucky souls. You’d open with a newsreel, then proceed to a B-movie, and then the main attraction. When the habits of Americans changed, and we weren’t so eager to spend five hours in a darkened theater (choosing instead to waste our time glued to the TV or internet), the B-movie wandered over to the Drive-In. Now that’s gone, for the most part, and we’re left to think that The Descent, as decent as it may be, is a beautiful B. Forget it–that film is too well made, and has too much money behind it to have ever been in the hands of Edgar Ulmer or Ida Lupino.
Dead Man’s Shoes is pure B. Made on the ultra-cheap, filmed not in sets but in run-down homes in the dreariest part of England, it looks as if the principals gathered what change they had in their pockets to finance the thing. It’s not the masterpiece some claim it is, but neither is it worthy of having been unceremoniously dumped in the new-release section of Hollywood Video. Years ago we would have peeked at Paddy Considine butchering his goons while making out in the back seat of a Dodge Dart.
The plot is as thin as it gets: Considine plays Richard, newly returned from seven years in the British Army. “God will forgive them,” he says, as the film opens. “He’ll forgive them and allow them into heaven. I can’t allow that.” Richard is referring to the drug-dealing gang from this Midlands town, who had been using and abusing Richard’s feeble-minded brother Anthony. To such an extent, apparently, that Richard wants everyone involved dead as doornails.
What makes Dead Man’s Shoes so effective is its performances. Like so many B-flicks, this one doesn’t skimp on intensity. The actors give the movie the most inexpensive professionalism to a flick–their acting. Considine is just right as man obsessed, terrifying from the get-go. The rest of the cast is spot-on as well, from Gary Stretch as the suave-looking but ultimately useless gang leader to the rest of the unfortunates who meet their end in grisly, but not gratuitous, ways.
Oddly enough, Dead Man’s Shoes is understated, almost to the point of seeming indifferent. Director Shane Meadows appears to have emulated Richard Linklater in his portrayal of the small town’s hooligans, as many of the stoner scenes are hilarious, including a scene where one flips out at Richard in a gas-mask. “A monster! With massive eyes!” Problem is, you begin to emerge feeling more sympathy for the victims than the killer, who lays waste to six guys with ease, considering how blitzed they get. The film has its rough spots, including the scene where you learn the extent of Anthony’s abuse, to the self-serious choral music blaring suddenly (the film has a great soundtrack, full of interesting indie-folk music, including M. Ward).
Paddy Considine scripted the thing, for the most part, and gives himself some choice scenes. His acting is the foundation of this movie and I’d love to see him in much more, hopefully something with a budget. But mostly I’d love to see Dead Man’s Shoes playing in small towns in America, and on the big screens and Drive-Ins everywhere. Hollywood doesn’t quite get it: Snakes on a Plane is calculated, uninteresting trash that’s called ‘B’, while Dead Man’s Shoes–tense and startling, goes unheeded.
