B.J. Novak's directorial debut, Vengeance, opts not to open with comedy, but with shades of horror, as it homes in on a dying woman in a dark, empty oil field, desperately clutching her phone in the hopes of finding a signal. With the Blumhouse logo having graced the screen just a few moments prior, this opening scene reads as if Novak is doing his best Jordan Peele impression, leaving behind his comedic roots to embrace the laurels of genre filmmaking. But the film immediately shifts to a Woody Allen-esque conversation during a Manhattan rooftop party, where Novak and his friend ruminate on the futility of monogamy in a world where potential love interests are boiled down into endless scores of names in phones. While Novak leans back into his comedic comfort zone, he still manages to create a witty moment that cleverly touches on America's current social climate.
Novak, who also penned the script, stars as Ben, a staff writer for The New Yorker who believes podcasting is the only medium through which his takes on American polarization can truly penetrate the cultural fabric. He struggles to convince podcast producer Eloise (Issa Rae) on his vision for a show, until the perfect opportunity lands right at his feet: a frantic Texan calls him and informs him that Ben's girlfriend, Abilene, is dead.
Abilene was, in fact, not his girlfriend; he struggles to even recall her until he finally looks up "Abilene Texas" on his phone's contact list, remembering he only hooked up with her a few times.
This occasional hookup described their relationship quite differently to her family, and before he knows it, he's on a plane to Texas to attend her funeral, where he's forced into giving an impromptu eulogy. In one of the film's better comedic moments Ben, grasping for straws, notes "She loved music, I know that".
Ben is not only here out of the goodness of his heart, however, but in search of a story fit for a podcast. Abilene's brother, Ty (Boyd Holbrook, in a deeply funny performance) believes she was murdered and wants the two of them to avenge her. Ben being Ben, he envisions a true crime show (which he hilariously dubs Dead White Girl) that will superficially shed light on the case — but in truth, will address the various conspiracy theories and viewpoints that are dividing America. Ty and his family quickly jump on board, not knowing they are mere pawns in his quest for a great tale.
What follows is a fish-out-of-water whodunit that flip-flops between presenting Abilene's death as profound mystery and a tragic open-and-shut case. As Ben journeys through the heart of West Texas, he frequently checks in with Eloise, who is getting his story podcast-ready from her lofty New York office. It's in these calls back to New York where the Get Out influence is glaringly obvious. It's one of the more tired aspects of the film and is, perhaps, the ingredient that grabbed producer Jason Blum's interest.
Novak, at times, relies too heavily on Texas stereotypes (i.e., love of gun ownership), but thankfully stops short of full-fledged mockery. Instead, he adds loveable doses of local iconography, exploring the heartland's unexplained allegiance to Whataburger and the communal charms of the rodeo (which, hilariously, features an endless array of energy sponsors). This restraint is key in realizing the film's thematic ambitions, as Novak, while poking fun at the Lone Star State, refuses to turn these people into a punchline, where, instead of being a means to an end, they become the end itself. It's a rarity in most American comedies.
The supporting cast is reliably solid, with Ashton Kutcher being the surprising standout. His record producer, Quinton Sellers, inspires his would-be singers through introspective discussions about the universe that oddly warm the heart. He radiates with an absorbing energy, and is the only character who sees right through Ben's charade. Kutcher's performance possesses the perfect amount of eccentricity while still being laced with depth. Novak uses his monologues to meaningfully comment on the absurdity of rural America and the nation's cultural split.
What isn't always solid is the cinematography. While it does latch onto the rugged beauty of the Texas frontier, it often looks a bit too much like an episode of a network comedy. Vengeance is wholly under-directed. While this story doesn't need any flashy shots or angles, it fails to have any style whatsoever, hindering the film's staying power. In terms of visuals, Novak still has a way to go in shedding his sitcom identity.
For most of its enjoyable runtime, it scratches at the surface, but its final ten minutes dig deep. Unleashing a great twist that recontextualizes everything that preceded it, uncovering big truths about the American impulse for division. While everyone might not agree with its take, it's a satisfying conclusion that delivers on all its narrative beats. While the film isn't a complete home run, it is a great first outing from a possibly new and interesting voice in American film.
(Focus)Novak, who also penned the script, stars as Ben, a staff writer for The New Yorker who believes podcasting is the only medium through which his takes on American polarization can truly penetrate the cultural fabric. He struggles to convince podcast producer Eloise (Issa Rae) on his vision for a show, until the perfect opportunity lands right at his feet: a frantic Texan calls him and informs him that Ben's girlfriend, Abilene, is dead.
Abilene was, in fact, not his girlfriend; he struggles to even recall her until he finally looks up "Abilene Texas" on his phone's contact list, remembering he only hooked up with her a few times.
This occasional hookup described their relationship quite differently to her family, and before he knows it, he's on a plane to Texas to attend her funeral, where he's forced into giving an impromptu eulogy. In one of the film's better comedic moments Ben, grasping for straws, notes "She loved music, I know that".
Ben is not only here out of the goodness of his heart, however, but in search of a story fit for a podcast. Abilene's brother, Ty (Boyd Holbrook, in a deeply funny performance) believes she was murdered and wants the two of them to avenge her. Ben being Ben, he envisions a true crime show (which he hilariously dubs Dead White Girl) that will superficially shed light on the case — but in truth, will address the various conspiracy theories and viewpoints that are dividing America. Ty and his family quickly jump on board, not knowing they are mere pawns in his quest for a great tale.
What follows is a fish-out-of-water whodunit that flip-flops between presenting Abilene's death as profound mystery and a tragic open-and-shut case. As Ben journeys through the heart of West Texas, he frequently checks in with Eloise, who is getting his story podcast-ready from her lofty New York office. It's in these calls back to New York where the Get Out influence is glaringly obvious. It's one of the more tired aspects of the film and is, perhaps, the ingredient that grabbed producer Jason Blum's interest.
Novak, at times, relies too heavily on Texas stereotypes (i.e., love of gun ownership), but thankfully stops short of full-fledged mockery. Instead, he adds loveable doses of local iconography, exploring the heartland's unexplained allegiance to Whataburger and the communal charms of the rodeo (which, hilariously, features an endless array of energy sponsors). This restraint is key in realizing the film's thematic ambitions, as Novak, while poking fun at the Lone Star State, refuses to turn these people into a punchline, where, instead of being a means to an end, they become the end itself. It's a rarity in most American comedies.
The supporting cast is reliably solid, with Ashton Kutcher being the surprising standout. His record producer, Quinton Sellers, inspires his would-be singers through introspective discussions about the universe that oddly warm the heart. He radiates with an absorbing energy, and is the only character who sees right through Ben's charade. Kutcher's performance possesses the perfect amount of eccentricity while still being laced with depth. Novak uses his monologues to meaningfully comment on the absurdity of rural America and the nation's cultural split.
What isn't always solid is the cinematography. While it does latch onto the rugged beauty of the Texas frontier, it often looks a bit too much like an episode of a network comedy. Vengeance is wholly under-directed. While this story doesn't need any flashy shots or angles, it fails to have any style whatsoever, hindering the film's staying power. In terms of visuals, Novak still has a way to go in shedding his sitcom identity.
For most of its enjoyable runtime, it scratches at the surface, but its final ten minutes dig deep. Unleashing a great twist that recontextualizes everything that preceded it, uncovering big truths about the American impulse for division. While everyone might not agree with its take, it's a satisfying conclusion that delivers on all its narrative beats. While the film isn't a complete home run, it is a great first outing from a possibly new and interesting voice in American film.