An Inexplicable Laugh; or, A Momentary Cry Against Southland Tales and Its Undeserved Recognition

To best capture my initial impressions of Southland Tales, one should consider a time they forgot to turn off the stove-top and the potential destruction that could occur if left on. An immense amount of shock and fear capture the mind without any manner of regression until the stove is no longer activated. Now, with that feeling captured, don’t turn off the stove. Let the fucking house burn because it’s Southland Tales. Why would you want that to still exist?

So much of Richard Kelly’s film is a complete mess that to examine it all would be a futile activity akin to Sisyphus with no extremities still pushing the boulder up a 89 degrees incline. But I’ll take a gander at the worst aspects.

First and foremost, the illogical narrative of Southland Tales is devoid of explanation. One could — with the graphic novels, the Cannes cut, and multiple viewings — attain an interpretation that would match Kelly’s own; but to call this a worthwhile endeavor is as nonsensical as a woman threatening suicide before beach-goers because she can’t suck Dwayne Johnson’s cock in public — which happens for little reason besides to see Justin Timberlake shoot her. From the double body twist, the Bush era satire, the porn stars with little acting ability, and Dwayne Johnson, who resembles the misguided representations of autistic individuals in film and television, Kelly’s feature is an amalgam of disastrous elements that, if taken more seriously or with more nuance or even an actual fucking prelude that’s not 40 minutes of narration (and then a fuckton more afterwards), still amounts to a two hour waste of time, effort, money, and critical reappraisal when there’s thousands of films, especially silents, that could benefit from more recognition.

Next, let’s address the graphic novels. Imagine reading the third book in the Lord of the Rings without the first two. The reader would lack an immense amount of world-building and understanding of the characters and plot. Comparing this to Southland Tales may not be particularly fair, but neither is releasing an unfinished product at Cannes and expecting positive reviews. One may argue the theatrical release, which includes additional material concerning the prequels and some edits to decrease the runtime, is a more definitive release; however, the assumption is still the same: that I fucking care about the graphic novels. In fact, even if I had read them — I haven’t and won’t — they wouldn’t make most of my issues with the film disappear.

Southland Tales is advertised as a dark comedy, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t laugh at some points. Jon Lovitz’s initial scene, the car advertisement, and much of the conclusion induced a couple snickers. In spite of these moments, the entirety of the work is so hamfisted with blatant political and media commentary and ’00s comedy that my reactions were closer to moans of grief toward an unpleasant sight which never let up. Disgust even arose at times when Kelly couldn’t stop himself from cumming behind the camera — such as the Timberlake MTV music video that fits better on that forgotten relic than in a film that’s supposedly a postmodern masterpiece. Yes, I get it Kelly; you’re an angry little boy who doesn’t like Bush, Republicans, and an America that is forgetting it was founded on the premise of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” But grow up. Anyone can mock the stupidity and growing dangers that plague the country. Sometimes you need to use your inside voice for people to listen, and right now, Kelly, you’re screaming in the faces of everyone who agrees with you.

What can be salvaged from this insufferable cinematic slam poem is the soundtrack and much of the direction. The combination of Moby’s score and contemporary licensed music amounts to an enjoyable complement to Kelly’s occasional long takes (one that feels inspired by Scorsese’s Goodfellas) and affectionate portrayal of Los Angeles. As much as this feels like a film from the ’00s, Southland Tales encapsulates (besides the comedy and commentary) an ideal examination of the city with its intense fascination with fame and beauty. I cannot deny Kelly crafted a movie that withstands time — for now. Those beautiful shots of Johnson dancing before women and an American flag; the rich interiors of LA homes; the crowded shops, bars, and beaches; all may seem familiar today, but ingrained with its hobbled narrative and disgruntled messaging, another few decades may result in Southland Tales maintaining its negative reception.

Since the film is just a whole bag of fun, I’ll end on a joke:

A horse walks into a bar.

Wait, wait, wait. Regardless of where such a joke would lead — suppose it continues to add seven more animals, nuclear destruction, a sci-fi twist, Bush era political commentary, and a few sexual innuendos to boot — the punchline never arrives. Why? One needed three more jokes beforehand to understand why the horse was walking into the bar in the first place. Such is the ridiculous Southland Tales: a joke with no punchline.