There's a fine line
between accurately depicting underclass Southern life and descending to
"rednexploitation," and Jeff Nichols' debut feature, Shotgun Stories, dances precariously on
that line. The movie features a lot of men living in pup tents in their brothers'
backyards, and margaritas mixed in blenders hooked up to car batteries, and
conversations about how it's nice to take a date to a buffet restaurant,
because it's "special." But Shotgun Stories is also well-plotted,
with a strong lead performance by Michael Shannon, and a fair amount of
authentic regional flavor. It isn't really meant to be a treatise on Southern
life. At heart, it's a country-fried genre film, minus the peppery white gravy.
Shannon plays the oldest
of three brothers, all of whom were abandoned by their drunken father when they
were young. (Dad's lack of commitment to his family is reflected in the names
he stuck them with: "Son," "Kid," and "Boy.") When the old man dies, Shannon
crashes the funeral and spits on the casket, angering his more middle-class
stepmother and four half-brothers. Resentments fester, then spill over, and
soon a bloody feud develops between the two sides of the bloodline. Nichols
keeps the escalating violence mostly offscreen; instead, he dwells on the quiet
moments before and afterward, when the characters sit and stew. Can they back
down from this fight? Can they trust the other side to back down? And can you
kill a man while his kids—your nephews—are running around in the
backyard?
Shotgun Stories is a curious mix of rural
lyricism in the David Gordon Green/Victor Nuñez mold, and macho bluster in the Billy
Jack/Walking
Tall
mold. If it leaned a little heavier on one side or the other, the movie might
be a little more successful—although it's hardly a failure as it is.
Nichols' only real problem is that his filmmaking is too reserved and tasteful,
given the pulpy subject matter. Still, it's clear that this Arkansas native
knows his own home, judging by the Lucero songs on the soundtrack, and all the
conversations about Razorback basketball and gambling at Tunica. In the end, Shotgun
Stories'
blood feud isn't between two sets of brothers, but between different standards
of Southern manhood. College-educated or callus-handed, everyone's expected to
pick up a gun when the action heats up. And all the while, perched on the
porch, the next generation is watching.