4 stars out of 5
With the Brothers Coen seemingly preoccupied with their upcoming Netflix series The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, we may have to wait a while for a true Coen Bros. cinematic offering. Still, their last writing-only work, Bridge of Spies, was a more than worthwhile stopgap, and there was no reason to believe Suburbicon wouldn’t be just as solid.
OK, sure, it’s Coen-crony George Clooney in the director’s chair this time, not Spielberg. But Georgie-Porgy’s five previous directorial efforts have been very respectable. So, again, Suburbicon was looking good out of the gate. Plus, Clooney-comrade Matt Damon and Coen-confidant Julianne Moore as leads? Money in the bank, my friends.
The end result is a blend of the Coens’ dark, dark humor and sharply drawn characters and Clooney’s penchant for something a little heavier, and it mostly works very well.
Now, TV commercials seemed to position this movie as a broad comedy, and it’s not that. Yes, there are laughs. But this is more noir — a scheme spinning way out of control. It’s 1959, and Damon is living the American dream, a successful business guy with a pretty wife and young son in the planned community of Suburbicon. Moore has a dual role as Damon’s wife Rose and her twin sister Margaret. Margie is both mo(o)re and less than she seems.
But what would you expect? We all know of the darkness lurking just under the surface of perfect suburbs, don’t we? Insurance claims investigator Oscar Isaac knows it, and he is terrific as always in a small role. Also worthy of note are Gary Basaraba as the entertainingly avuncular Uncle Mitch, young Noah Jupe with a believable portrayal of quiet young son Nicky, Glenn Fleshler (George Remus on Boardwalk Empire) as a baddie, and my man Russell Mills as an extra.
There is a subplot here, and it doesn’t quite jibe with the main story. An African-American family has moved to town, and that does not sit well with many of the residents of this seemingly happy suburban enclave. (I told you things weren’t perfect there!) It might’ve worked in a wider indictment of suburbia, but here, the storyline almost seems tacked on, like it could’ve been cut. Still, post-Charlottesville (clearly filmed pre-), these scenes make for intriguing, difficult viewing, especially a clean-cut “Greek chorus” that is eerily reminiscent of those tiki-toting asswipes.
Clooney successfully builds tension — a particularly deft sequence is from Nicky’s perspective underneath a bed — and Damon’s desperation, while also displaying a knowledge of when not to show the action. The civil-rights segments are a bit heavy-handed, but the rest, including the ending, has a pleasingly light touch.
Jack Silbert, curator