An odd blend of perfectly hopeless climate and hammily mannered exhibitions, “A Single Shot” is at the same time downplayed and overwhelming.
This woodlands neo-noir is the most recent film from executive David M. Rosenthal, who drew some legitimate minutes out of sheer recipe in the 2011 show “Janie Jones,” around a repelled father and little girl who associate by playing rock music together. “A Single Shot,” which Matthew F. Jones composed in light of his novel of a similar name, is really at its best when nobody says anything by any means.
The initial 14 minutes of the film are basically silent, with the definite sound plan and cool, blue pictures of early-morning West Virginia recounting the story. A pooch barks. Flying creatures tweet. Bovines moo. What’s more, Sam Rockwell’s cumbersome boots smash on the ground as he wrongfully chases deer in the forested areas around his trailer home. (Spaniard Edward Grau, who shot Tom Ford’s stunning “A Single Man,” is the cinematographer.)
With his disguise baseball top, scruffy facial hair and stoic aura, Rockwell’s character, John Moon, is unmistakably a man who has fallen on harsh circumstances and is attempting to survive. Be that as it may, when he sees development in the trees and pulls the trigger on his shotgun, he winds up hitting and slaughtering a young lady. Normally, he freezes—yet as he scrambles to stash the body, he discovers her alternative campground, which incorporates a case loaded with money.
In the convention of movies like “No Country for Old Men” and “A Simple Plan,” in which customary people end up in remarkable conditions by settling on one unsafe choice after another, John takes the cash, at that point gets himself the objective of progressively threatening dangers.
His burglary is reasonable, given that he’s lost the family dairy ranch to abandonment and his burger joint server spouse, Jess (an underused Kelly Reilly), has brought off with their young child. He’s endeavoring to get back destined for success. However, plainly the cash has a place with somebody, and not a decent somebody, which prompts a parade of performing artists (the greater part of them Brits) doing jumbled Southern pronunciations in tattoos and trashy garments.
Among them are Joe Anderson as a strong crackhead with the dismal name of Obadiah and Jason Isaacs as a ubiquitous twisted person named Waylon. Jeffrey Wright appears in a few scenes as John’s just companion, the hard-celebrating Simon, yet the character is so tanked so frequently that it’s regularly difficult to tell what he’s idiom. This is particularly dangerous given that his principle work is by all accounts touching base in the third demonstration to disclose to John the interlaced devotions of the different residential area scuzzballs who are after him.
Additionally packed into the cast is William H. Macy, who might be a scalawag or only a go getter. He plays a long-lasting legal advisor with the inconceivably folksy name of Daggard Pitt. With his plaid jacket, botanical tie, shabby toupee, debilitated arm and limping step, he’s more an accumulation of characteristics and tics than a genuine individual. Indeed, even a performing artist of Macy’s involvement and flexibility can’t make this character feel like fragile living creature and blood.
Macy’s quality is really a deterrent in some ways. Rosenthal has refered to Joel and Ethan Coen among the many regarded movie producers who affected him here. The way that Macy featured significantly in one of the best of the Coens’ movies, “Fargo,” just helps us to remember the mediocrity of “A Single Shot.”
Be that as it may, it’s constantly great to see Rockwell. Continuously. Talking about adaptability, he truly can do anything. The abrupt and gravelly John Moon is an abnormally relaxed part for him—particularly contrasted with his swaggering, scene-taking supporting turn this late spring in “The Way Back”— however he passes on an extraordinary arrangement about his character in little, unobtrusive ways.
Inconspicuous is not a word you would use to depict “A Single Shot,” however, as it achieves its climactic decision—and on the off chance that we couldn’t make sense of for ourselves that lives are in question, the screechy, unshakable score from Icelandic author Atli Orvarsson explains everything for us.