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This weekend I rented In Cold Blood, the movie based on Truman
Capote's famous non-fiction novel about two thugs who killed a
family of four in a small town in Kansas. I really wanted to like
this movie, for two reasons: Capote's storied book and the
presence of that likable nutjob Robert Blake as one of the
killers. Ultimately, however, I was dissapointed. The mechanics
of the movie were all excellent (the acting, the cinematography,
the writing, the score by Quincy Jones, etc.) and I was
sympathetic to the style of noire-realism that director Richard
Brook's achieved, but for some reason it did not gel for me. I
think my biggest problem watching the movie was my inability to
connect with any of the characters or the main arc of the plot,
which dealt mostly with the murderers' attempt to evade the law.
Presumably I was meant to connect with the Robert Blake character
(he is the only murderer given a back story, his emotions and
misgivings are dwelt upon throughout, and his actions are
ultimately the most troubling), but for some reason I was unable
to form any emotional response to him or his plight. Not that
Blake's performance wasn't excellent; it was indeed a fine turn,
but (like I said) I just couldn't connect with him and therefore
I couldn't connect with the movie . . . Oh well.
The above criticism notwithstanding, I would recommend In Cold
Blood for the last twenty minutes alone. Blake's trek to the
gallows and his hanging are dark and compelling. Plus, there is a
beautifully photographed scene in which the shadows from beads of
rain against a window pane roll down Blake's face like tears and
sweat.
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