The brothers originally adapted it for director Barry Sonnenfeld -- their former cinematographer; he remains now only as co-producer. The original film is beloved in the U.K., where it is often viewed through the long lens of allegory because of its dour depiction of postwar England; it has no such stature in the States. It's free to be tinkered and toyed with, to the point where this adaptation shares only premise and title with its ancestor while wrapping Tom Hanks in Guinness's professorial splendor. The Coens have moved it to their favorite setting, the dreamlike American South, where it looks like 1934 and sounds like a gospel revival, with songs chosen by mix-tape-master T Bone Burnett; this could be happening the same week as O Brother, Where Art Thou? or yesterday.
The Coens once more convince a Movie Star to tousle his image till he looks like a brilliant boob; you go to the Coens when you want to look like a clown, not a prince. Not since he was a spry, up-for-anything comer has Tom Hanks appeared so giddy onscreen, and it's a welcome relief; for too long, the former comic has been weighed down by the burden of his icon status, which smothers the spark and exuberance that initially made him a star. Hanks doesn't have to carry the whole movie -- in his Kentucky-fried getup, looking slightly older than his 47 years, he doesn't appear able to carry anything over 15 pounds -- but he holds it together, because his jive-talking Mississippi con man, Goldthwait Higginson Dorr III, Ph.D., isn't played as a put-on.
Dorr, boss of a rinky-dink band of safecrackers and criminals, may indeed have studied at Oxford and may indeed be a professor of Poe and dead languages, as he insists early on; there's more to Dorr than meets the ear. Hanks doesn't condescend to the character and treat him like an idiot doomed to comeuppance; rather, he's a smart man who just happens to run up against a cagier woman, Mrs. Munson, played with engaging crankiness by Soul Food's Irma Hall. Mrs. Munson, who sends $5 every month to Bob Jones University, takes particular delight in complaining to the sheriff (George Wallace) about rap music by repeating, "I left my wallet in El Segundo," a chorus she heard and can't forget.
Dorr's gang, which he's hired through a help-wanted ad to tunnel into a riverboat casino's vault, is a mismatched band of miscreants, dolts, and gangstas: Marlon Wayans as Gawain MacSam, foul-mouthed inside man; J.K. Simmons as Garth Pancake, a demolitions expert in Jack Hanna's khaki short-shorts; Tzi Ma as The General, a doughnut-store owner with Hitler's mustache and temperament; and Ryan Hurst as Lump Hudson, a college football player who's taken a thousand too many shots to the head. Longtime Coen Brothers cinematographer Roger Deakins introduces Lump by visually putting the audience inside his helmet; you feel the concussion coming on.
Using Mrs. Munson's basement, they tunnel easily enough into the casino's vault -- but then must deal with the old lady, once she finds out they aren't actually Renaissance-period chamber musicians training downstairs; hence the title, as the movie spends its second half trying to decide which of the gang will have to off Mrs. Munson. Here the movie devolves into morbid slapstick, tinged with an odd kind of sentimentality; Gawain flashes back to his unhappy childhood and, imagining Mrs. Munson as his own mother, is unable to pull the trigger.
The Ladykillers fits snugly among the Coens' lighter and breezier movies -- the ones you forget after you see them once and begin to appreciate and finally adore, the more often you revisit them. (Who didn't think The Big Lebowski was an innocuous throwaway the first time they saw it, only to find themselves years later insisting that the rug really ties the whole room together?) It doesn't help that the opening 20 minutes, during which the brothers introduce a band of blundering thieves one by one, are so brilliant that they almost make the rest of the film a disappointment. And after a while, the movie just seems to run out of breath.
We welcome readers to submit letters regarding articles and content in Cleveland Scene. Letters should be a minimum of 150 words, refer to content that has appeared on Cleveland Scene, and must include the writer's full name, address, and phone number for verification purposes. No attachments will be considered. Writers of letters selected for publication will be notified via email. Letters may be edited and shortened for space.
Email us at [email protected].
Support Local Journalism.
Join the Cleveland Scene Press Club
Local journalism is information. Information is power. And we believe everyone deserves access to accurate independent coverage of their community and state. Our readers helped us continue this coverage in 2020, and we are so grateful for the support.
Help us keep this coverage going in 2021. Whether it's a one-time acknowledgement of this article or an ongoing membership pledge, your support goes to local-based reporting from our small but mighty team.
Subscribe now to get the latest news delivered right to your inbox.