I’m Jack Hammer, and this is my Review of ‘The Killing’
Some mugs think a crime flick needs a parade of car chases and a dame with a heart of gold. They’re wrong. Stanley Kubrick’s The Killing is proof. It’s not about the flash, it’s about the fizzle. It’s a grimy, black-and-white picture from 1956, and it’s a cold shot of reality with a twist of lemon.
The plot’s as simple as a punch in the nose: A bunch of no-good guys get together to rob a racetrack. There’s the brains behind the operation, Johnny Clay, fresh out of the joint and looking to make one last score. He’s a smart fella, with a plan so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. He’s got his crew, a motley bunch of sad sacks and desperate fools—a crooked cop, a heavy-drinking wrestler, a weaselly cashier, and a bartender with a face like a worn-out bar mat.
Kubrick plays with time like a cat with a mouse, jumping back and forth to show you how each piece of the puzzle fits. It’s a clever trick, and it works, building the tension with every hop. You see the plan unfold, piece by piece, and you think to yourself, “This is gonna work.” That’s the real genius of the picture. It gets you to hope, just a little, for these lowlifes.
And then it all goes to hell.
It’s the dame, see? Sherry Peatty. She’s the kind of blonde who’d sell her own mother for a new dress. She’s married to the weak-willed cashier, and she’s got a mouth like a broken fire hydrant, spilling secrets to her two-timing boyfriend. She’s the human element, the thing that no plan, no matter how clever, can account for. She’s the wrench in the works, and she sends the whole thing crashing down.
The ending is a kick in the teeth. No winners, no heroes, just a suitcase full of money and a dog. It’s a bitter pill, but that’s what makes it a classic. It’s a real slice of life, proving that no matter how good the plan, there’s always a loose screw or a greedy dame to turn it into a tragedy. Kubrick showed them all how to make a real crime picture, and they’ve been trying to catch up ever since.
