As the film opens, we see a moving blemish on a dirt road cutting through the tidiness of an orchard that seems to perpetually expand. We encircle high above, and then director William Friedkin crashes in closer, exposing this shadow beneath the noonday sun, wearing jeans and a red jacket. We intermittently get a peek at his peaceful expression, split by aviator sunglasses outlined by long dark hair. But there's something uncomforting about this guy. Abruptly, Friedkin intercuts his idyllic angles with low ones gliding right above the treetops. Friedkin associates Reece's look of ease and harmony with the sudden, threatening low-angles. They're like Reece's thoughts escaping ahead, unbound, poisonous. An image of madness? A mentality in disarray? Reece stays gripped, unaffected. Friedkin seems to pose which is more fear-provoking, the facade of sanity or insanity? Which is Reece? Friedkin pushes us past abnormality to a level where the serene and disordered synchronize, established with images, accentuated by a lingering Ennio Morricone theme. We shift past good and evil into a true chasm.
Friedkin proceeds with what could relatively be referred to as a police procedural. We meet a cop, played by a disappointingly stiff Michael Biehn, who pursues Reece, played by Alex McArthur who on the other hand is genuinely and consistently disturbing, and then we see Reece caught in a surprisingly trouble-free way. Found at the gas station where he serves with a smile, Reece jumps the back fence and dashes away. The arguable doing of a logical person who doesn't want to go to jail.
This is not a movie about murder so much as a movie about madness, as it pertains to murder in present-day American criminal courts. Friedkin plays both ends and conspires with and against both. Reece's cruelty is beyond our grasp of possible human behavior, and then, in court, he's represented with the argument that he must've been insane, and indicted on the basis that he acted lucidly in numerous other ways so he must've been sane. The distinction between these two premises is the death penalty. We're not much swayed by the court contentions for either flank. Friedkin is shrewd and plucky in going this thorny route. Reece was sane, the prosecution maintains, because he premeditated to buy the gun and fled to evade capture. He was insane, the defense reasons, because his crimes couldn't have been considered by a sound mind. The prosecution presents an expert shrink branded "Dr. Death" owing to his unvarying conclusion of sanity. Flip, flop, flip. Flop.
In addition, Friedkin finds a thoroughly unsettling and claustrophobic effect, a tonal ambiance of ghostly uneasiness. In the courtroom scenes, the spectator area is always dark. Faces are virtually invisible. Everyone is dressed in gloomy or muffled colors. The walls are encased in murky wood paneling. Yet the judge, attorneys and witnesses all seem lit in spotlight.
Friedkin keeps the abnormality that is Reece uncertain. Only this and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer have ever truly evoked the striking normalcy of psychopathic murderers between the moments when they snap. Throughout the courtroom scenes, Reece sits silently, serenely, like another spectator, not the accused. But is he sane or not? By the legal definition, does he comprehend the distinction between right and wrong? Friedkin's purpose is to present a monster. While an old classmate and a high school flame recount his youthful benevolence, and his mother says he was a good boy growing up, though he would simply stand and watch his father beat her, we see from Reece's actions he is a monster. Friedkin takes another one of his very bold, widely misunderstood risks so that we can reach verdicts of our own as to his sanity. Mine is that whenever there are two diametrically opposed choices as to the characterization of a human being like Charles Reece, it won't make any difference whether or not he gets the chair because society as it handles its judicial system will never fully comprehend how entangled two extremes are.
Friedkin proceeds with what could relatively be referred to as a police procedural. We meet a cop, played by a disappointingly stiff Michael Biehn, who pursues Reece, played by Alex McArthur who on the other hand is genuinely and consistently disturbing, and then we see Reece caught in a surprisingly trouble-free way. Found at the gas station where he serves with a smile, Reece jumps the back fence and dashes away. The arguable doing of a logical person who doesn't want to go to jail.
This is not a movie about murder so much as a movie about madness, as it pertains to murder in present-day American criminal courts. Friedkin plays both ends and conspires with and against both. Reece's cruelty is beyond our grasp of possible human behavior, and then, in court, he's represented with the argument that he must've been insane, and indicted on the basis that he acted lucidly in numerous other ways so he must've been sane. The distinction between these two premises is the death penalty. We're not much swayed by the court contentions for either flank. Friedkin is shrewd and plucky in going this thorny route. Reece was sane, the prosecution maintains, because he premeditated to buy the gun and fled to evade capture. He was insane, the defense reasons, because his crimes couldn't have been considered by a sound mind. The prosecution presents an expert shrink branded "Dr. Death" owing to his unvarying conclusion of sanity. Flip, flop, flip. Flop.
In addition, Friedkin finds a thoroughly unsettling and claustrophobic effect, a tonal ambiance of ghostly uneasiness. In the courtroom scenes, the spectator area is always dark. Faces are virtually invisible. Everyone is dressed in gloomy or muffled colors. The walls are encased in murky wood paneling. Yet the judge, attorneys and witnesses all seem lit in spotlight.
Friedkin keeps the abnormality that is Reece uncertain. Only this and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer have ever truly evoked the striking normalcy of psychopathic murderers between the moments when they snap. Throughout the courtroom scenes, Reece sits silently, serenely, like another spectator, not the accused. But is he sane or not? By the legal definition, does he comprehend the distinction between right and wrong? Friedkin's purpose is to present a monster. While an old classmate and a high school flame recount his youthful benevolence, and his mother says he was a good boy growing up, though he would simply stand and watch his father beat her, we see from Reece's actions he is a monster. Friedkin takes another one of his very bold, widely misunderstood risks so that we can reach verdicts of our own as to his sanity. Mine is that whenever there are two diametrically opposed choices as to the characterization of a human being like Charles Reece, it won't make any difference whether or not he gets the chair because society as it handles its judicial system will never fully comprehend how entangled two extremes are.