An Australian version of a serial killer movie. Cool. I couldn't wait. For me, Snowtown was in the same category as Titanic and Apollo 13 – I knew the story and knew what happened, so what could they do to make it surprising and entertaining? Well, I was certainly surprised. I must admit to being slightly conflicted about writing this; without wanting to go for the cheap joke, I should say, I have no axe to grind, and it's not without due consideration, that I pour scorn on other people's labours (after all, I'm sure the writer and director set out to create the best movie they could, and, when all's said and done, one's best is all one can do in life). But I left the cinema slack-jawed. And annoyed. Miraculously, the story of Australia's most prolific serial killer, which, at one end of the spectrum could have been treated as a splatter extravaganza, has been made to be, well, boring. Just utterly tedious. And that, for me, is the worst crime a movie can commit. Whatever the subject, style, treatment or genre, before the other layers of social commentary, polemic exposition and cultural observation, the cinema is an entertainment medium. Plug into my emotions and make me feel something; positive or negative, amused,amazed, repulsed or disturbed – that's all part of the cinematic contract, for which the audience signs up - but not for seat-shifting boredom. Okay, clearly establish the characters' environ by all means, but when I was checking my watch in the reflection of the screen after what turned out to be only twenty five minutes into the session, I knew this was going to be a long two hours.
It could easily have been called 'Mastication Nation' as there were so many scenes of people eating – messily and loudly. I heard myself saying 'oh not again'. If you took kitchen tables out of the script, that'd be half the props gone. I'm sure the eating scenes could be post-rationalized, or intellectualized as depictions of a sense of family, coming together, communion, safety in a brutish, base world. I don't care. After a couple of such scenes, we were just aware that Mr Bunting's parents apparently hadn't taught him many table manners. But we didn't even find out if Mr Bunting's parents had taught him how to appropriately pack a barrel; that part of the story, again,was pedestrian. For what it's worth, I found the music incredibly evocative, the casting was spot on, and the actors acquitted themselves superbly(Jamie's eyes filling with tears on cue was astonishing). But generally,it all made Mike Leigh look like Spielberg.