Our hero is an angry man who can't seem to hold it together. Through a series of flashbacks we learn why: a great tragedy has traumatized him. But this is not just any tragedy, I can't think of anything worse that could happen to someone. Oedipus Rex plucks out his eyes with less cause.
So there is plenty of motivation for him becoming an angry loner, but his past could motivate any dramatic outcome, celibate monk, mass murderer, iconoclastic artist, CIA assassin, raving lunatic. Call a suicide prevention hot line with his backstory and they might direct you to a right-to-die website.
Psychotherapy is apparently never an option in the townie macho culture the film depicts; the local police have a very strong reason to get him counseling, but there is no indication they ever do. Self-medication with alcohol is the only succor he gets.
OK, so I understand why our hero is angry, but why are most of the other characters attempting a Boston accent so touchy? The accent-free characters in the film never get upset.
Despite the portentous music, the film's front story is not so tragic. (A different score could turn this glass-half-empty downer into a half-full feel-good charmer. Some film school should do the experiment.) Our hero realizes his limitations and makes some reasonable choices. The brilliantly acted and Oscar-headed moment when his ex-wife tries to help made me wonder just how she managed to get over it so well.
An inability to control his fists is our hero's one shortcoming. Watching a seething Casey Affleck staring out his late brother's bedroom window, my immediate reaction was at least he isn't punching his fist through the glass, and then, a second later, he does. No angry-male stereotypes were harmed in the making of this movie.
My takeaway? Check your smoke detectors regularly.
So there is plenty of motivation for him becoming an angry loner, but his past could motivate any dramatic outcome, celibate monk, mass murderer, iconoclastic artist, CIA assassin, raving lunatic. Call a suicide prevention hot line with his backstory and they might direct you to a right-to-die website.
Psychotherapy is apparently never an option in the townie macho culture the film depicts; the local police have a very strong reason to get him counseling, but there is no indication they ever do. Self-medication with alcohol is the only succor he gets.
OK, so I understand why our hero is angry, but why are most of the other characters attempting a Boston accent so touchy? The accent-free characters in the film never get upset.
Despite the portentous music, the film's front story is not so tragic. (A different score could turn this glass-half-empty downer into a half-full feel-good charmer. Some film school should do the experiment.) Our hero realizes his limitations and makes some reasonable choices. The brilliantly acted and Oscar-headed moment when his ex-wife tries to help made me wonder just how she managed to get over it so well.
An inability to control his fists is our hero's one shortcoming. Watching a seething Casey Affleck staring out his late brother's bedroom window, my immediate reaction was at least he isn't punching his fist through the glass, and then, a second later, he does. No angry-male stereotypes were harmed in the making of this movie.
My takeaway? Check your smoke detectors regularly.