Review: Dead Man’s Wire

Director:  Gus Van Sant

Stars:  Bill Skarsgård, Dacre Montgomery, Myha’la

We’re used to Gus Van Sant pictures rolling out at a fairly regular clip, so much so that I found myself genuinely surprised that Dead Man’s Wire is his first feature film in a little over seven years, since amiable small-scale John Callahan biopic Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot. Regardless of the reasons for the gap, Van Sant returns with a similarly sized indie picture, again pulled from real life. This time we’re in the true crime dramatisation wheelhouse, detouring back in time to Indianapolis in February of 1977, and the strange case of Tony Kiritsis (Bill Skarsgård), a disgruntled businessman who blames his failures on underhand tactics from his mortgage lender. We join him on the morning of the 8th – a Tuesday – when he rocks up at Meridian Mortgages in search of justice. Or equity, you might say.

Already his plan’s gone awry. He’s snapped his car key off in the ignition and the subject of his ire, finickity company president M.L. Hall (Al Pacino), has taken a vacation to Florida. Undeterred, he settles for the man’s son, Richard (Dacre Montgomery), affixing a shotgun to the man’s neck through the titular makeshift method. Instant hostage. Absconding with a police car back to his apartment (which is rigged with explosives), Tony hunkers down and awaits the answers to his demands, which include a frank and earnest apology from Hall Sr. for having swindled him into debt.

By 1977 the world was coming to terms with the idea of instant news, and Tony’s relationship with the media is of particular interest to screenwriter Austin Kolodney. Irked by the placating tone of the local police force (with whom he’s on otherwise bizarrely good terms), Tony requests that local radio DJ Fred Temple (Colman Domingo) act as his go-between. Tony’s a gruff, no-nonsense kinda guy… except when in the presence of his favourite celebrity. He’s not averse to fame or its charms. Indeed, he seems particularly enamoured with the attention his ploy is getting. When he talks about his ‘friends’ he’s referring to members of the general public calling in to show their support, not anyone he’s actually associated with. A precursor to the ‘like and subscribe’ mentality of modern influencer culture. The media machine scurries to make news out of, effectively, a siege, and this newly-birthed urge to capture (non)events as they happen is given face by plucky young Channel 12 reporter Linda Page (Myha’la in a woefully underwritten role).

The media’s predicament becomes Van Sant’s too, however. Dead Man’s Wire storms out of the gate without a moment wasted, but once Tony is holed up in his apartment with Richard things inevitably come to standstill. Al Pacino’s largess helps alleviate some of the torpor, but it also serves keenly to remind us of his own firebrand anti-establishment role ripped from the headlines; 1975’s Dog Day Afternoon. Van Sant’s too savvy to not appreciate the connection, but it doesn’t serve Dead Man’s Wire particularly well. Good as Skarsgård is, there’s little likelihood that this picture will attain the stature of Sidney Lumet’s. In part because it’s about 50 years late to the party, and movies like this one are a dime a dozen now. Last year’s September 5, for instance, made many of the same observations about the burgeoning world of 24-hour news, and with far greater stakes at play. Having a heavily make-upped Cary Elwes repeatedly bark “shitshow” in the peripheries doesn’t help Van Sant’s case much either.

Van Sant still knows how to keep things moving, however, even when his story stalls. Still inserts give the air of archival photos and the switches here and there to low-res videotape at least allow the picture textural variety. The time period is given a decent evocation without descending into overtly fetishistic tendencies. Were it not for Van Sant’s more modern eye, Dead Man’s Wire could be mistaken for having the no-frills look of one of the era’s AIP flicks (complimentary). And while some elements may be underserved, Kolodney’s script and Skarsgård’s folksy characterisation of Tony allow plenty of room for wry humour. “Let’s get comfy”, Tony says affectionately to Richard once they reach his apartment. This to a man with a shotgun tethered to his neck. In spite of the relative smallness of this curio from the annals of American crime, it’s a nimble enough picture where it needs to be. The use of Gil Scott-Heron’s ‘The Revolution Will Not Be Televised’ becomes ironic, as many of the moments that amount to Tony’s undoing involve the kind of reneged-on deals that stirred him into action in the first place. As is often the case, it’s the off-screen details that tell the real tale.