Adapted from Donald Ray Pollock's 2011 novel, The Devil All the Time has proven to be a real talking point. With a cast like that (Spiderman! Batman! Pennywise!) and content that seems ripe to provoke, it’s hardly surprising to see it attract so much heat. Even less of a surprise is the fact that it’s proving to be so divisive, only natural considering the seemingly unholy marriage of style and subject matter. A loose, eerily quiet crime saga set in the town of Knockemstiff and involving a pair of murderers, a corrupt sheriff and a paedophile priest, it goes without saying that The Devil All the Time is a typically heavy piece of work from Antonio Campos, last seen helming the similarly provocative Christine.
The story of Tom Holland’s Arvin, a troubled young man
sitting square in the centre of the aforementioned rogue’s gallery, The Devil
All the Time uses a kind of mosaic structure to build a world around its
morally divided hero. It’s a slow, patiently told story, stewing in sticky
Southern heat and taking great pleasure in setting up small details to set off greater
tragedies. It’s grim from the start- something signalled by an early
crucifixion- and although it’s tempting to dismiss it as bleak or hopeless, that’s
not entirely accurate. Instead, it plays like an elegy for a nation that’s lost
its way, quietly and deeply tragic. That’s where Arvin comes in, growing up into
a doomed world without realising that he doesn’t have a chance to change it.
That he tries anyway is what fuels the desperate hope at the heart of the story,
transforming The Devil All the Time into something uncomfortably, nakedly
human.
Holland is outstanding as Arvin, showing previously unseen
levels of soul and vulnerability. It’s an exercise in range that seems long
overdue from Holland. Ace as he is in the most recent Spider-outings, his
Arvin feels like a revelation, all deep-seated trauma and stinging moral confusion.
It’s a thrill to watch as he goes positively primal in the film’s standout
scene, his nail-bitingly tense confrontation with Robert Pattison’s slimy
preacher. Pattison gives another bravura turn in his ongoing streak of belters,
all venomous charm as he spits his lines through a Southern drawl that would be
laughable if it wasn’t so bone-chillingly sinister. Another standout is
Sebastian Stan as the paunchy, stoic cop tasked with bringing justice to this
deeply twisted world. He’s thoroughly corrupted himself, of course, and Stan plays
his nervy jadedness with aplomb.
The world of Knockemstiff feels simultaneously alive and
dead, bustling with the energy of what feels like a legion of lost souls desperately
scrambling for redemption. In fact, the film’s only real issue may be that it’s
too sprawling, and some characters- namely Mia Wasikowska’s shy,
god-fearing Helen- get lost in the expanse of the story. It’s a shame too, with
how well Piercing showcased her ability to handle such dark material with nuance and relish. The same
could be said of Eliza Scanlen’s Lenore, who often threatens to turn into a
plot device, only saved by the fact that this is Arvin’s story, and as such,
the version of her that exists is explicitly the one that he sees, something that gives the film a kind of subjectivity that makes her relatively thin characterisation slightly less of an issue. Not that the
film struggles with all of its female characters, with Riley Keogh adding
another wonderful turn to her rapidly increasing repertoire.
Ultimately, The Devil All the Time is destined to provoke, upset and divide, but I'm not sure that's a bad thing. It might just be the opposite, with the film succeeding so well in sowing an atmosphere of unease and depravity that to come out the other side unscathed is to miss the point entirely. It deals with dark, contentious themes but with a lightness of touch that ensures that Campos never descends into puerile shock tactics. And while it might be divisive now, it's not impossible to imagine that, in retrospect, it'll be considered what it so clearly is: a work of genius. An oppressive, deeply troubling work of pure cinema
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
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