Rewatch Weekend #1: A Blood Simple Plan

Recently, I’ve wanted to revisit movies of which their images have slowly clouded over in my mind. Two problems: 1) I am not one to rewatch much and, thus, have locked myself into the nasty hamster wheel of consuming all the seemingly never-ending, yet-unexplored stuff out there in the ether, and 2) I didn’t want to just re-consume films; I want them to stick around.

One of the best ways to remember is to document in some capacity. Which is why I’m trying out this new (hopefully) weekly exercise of returning to a film, for whatever reason—maybe I wasn’t paying that close attention the first time ‘round, or it has just been forever, or I’m reading a book/review about the film, etc. etc.—and writing out my thoughts.

A completely unnecessary supplement to this endeavor will be a companion film of which I’ve never seen. Probably with one, or multiple, of the same director, actor, crew, writer, themes, what have you. My idea for the companion film is mostly to guarantee enough words (though we’ll see how much I write about each), instead of floundering in a “this is still great” mode of review for the rewatched one, and to provide a counterpoint to the acting/directing/writing/cinematography that brings out the gifts in each.

For this inaugural weekend, I will be driving down through the deserted highways of Blood Simple and across the incriminating footprints of A Simple Plan. Spoilers (even if mostly mild) ahead!

If memory serves Blood Simple was one of the first Coen Brothers films I saw. After witnessing, for the first time, an accurate representation of my fellow Midwest brethren in Fargo, my parents showed me The Big Lebowski, then I ran through their catalog from front to back, again and again. I even remember a time at the local dvd rental store when we asked where they had Inside Llewyn Davis and to my dismay they only had Inside Out. Their films felt like the homework you’re excited to do; homework for the soul—a way to understand the place where I grew up and this form of art that could be uncompromisingly weird and personal. So attached I became that even if I didn’t understand their films—Hail, Caesar! for instance—at the time, I would argue their excellence with my father as he would trudge off to bed saying “This sucks!” or “I can’t do this.” He did this with A Serious Man and though I could psychoanalyze this decision for ages, we don’t have time for that. Plus, that’s kind of the joy of the Coens: embodying Larry Gopnik’s “what does it all mean?” pleas as we try to keep in mind their career-defining aphorism “Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.”

Arch as their “It’s just a movie, stop analyzing!” schtick is, considering the depth of the Coens’ work, “accepting the mystery” of their themes isn’t a bad way to watch either. To hang out with their uniquely cooky characters—and M. Emmet Walsh’s puke-yellow suit—is just as entertaining as their maturing tone—if Preston Sturges’ cynical screwballing fell into nihilistic sludge.

Yet, the way they blend entertainment with craft is astounding. For one, the casting is perfect. Not just Walsh’s suit, but his wispy, screechy voice which offsets his towering frame and balances the P.I.’s cruel laughter with some vulnerability; Dan Hedaya’s Marty, who hasn’t slept in weeks and wears an endless stare; McDormand’s femme fatale Abby with her innocent youth but steely interior; or Getz’ Ray who is so internal he could explode. These aren’t the most beautiful actors alive; they bake in the Texas heat and cool off in the shadows of seedy bars and ramshackle houses.

For the most part, those four faces, tense and sweaty, dominate the screen. Smart for budgetary reasons, the small cast also can’t help but feel lost in their surroundings. Scurrying like ants across fields and highways, the vast, wide-open space makes it more hospitable for hiding, if not for the fact that nothing else is there. Texas is a place where isolation and individualism come hand in hand, or as Walsh’s Visser says: “Down here, you’re on your own.”

We see another couple, bartender Meurice and patron Debra, but they don’t linger long, and their budding relationship doesn’t add much contrast to the previously established couples, except to show off Marty’s perversity and his line “We don’t seem to be communicatin’.” After all, Blood Simple, like every Coen Brothers film, is always somewhat about people who don’t know how to communicate and the breakdown of their decision-making as they rely more and more on themselves. Trust is the highest currency around—even higher than a murder contract—but nobody is willing to dish it out. Abby and Ray each think the other killed Marty but they never check to make sure. These played-for-laughs misunderstandings are part and parcel to the Coen machinery, but such scenes as Ray marking his crime with tire tracks, the un-coverable blood, or the final drip of water that never comes are so sickeningly comedic—less clownish, antic, or playful than Raising Arizona, Burn After Reading, O Brother, Scruggs, etc.—that the laughter lodges in your throat, overwhelmed by anxiety. Not only could all of this been avoided but, whatever happens, nobody will notice.

Thus, Eddington was top of mind both for its should I be laughing at this? tone and depiction of rural life. Nobody nails the provincial like the Coens; how the limited environment and culture in which you were raised infects your soul, for better and worse, and how its natural to laugh at the ridiculousness of this birthright. Apparently, many critics at the time glommed onto the Cold War angle nested in Visser’s introductory monologue, but if we place that aside for now (much to the Coens’ satisfaction, even if relevant given Burn After Reading a quarter-century later), including Russia does a lot to explain small town convictions. Specifically, how people in small towns make sense of themselves by clinging to the flimsiest of universal mythologies: distancing their beliefs from some (Russian collectivism) and connecting to the symbology of others (Marty latching onto the needless violence of Ancient Greek messengers; or Visser grounding himself in the fictitious guarantee of Texas laws) to feed a simple construction of the self. A construction that manifests itself differently across characters, but finds a small link in the myriad shots of lounging feet (dead and alive, cowboy boots and converse) that externalize a bit of that faux composure. It’s all just blankets on a pool of blood; building defenses in order to attack; wanting safety but alienating yourself from all help. To Visser’s point, you have to play by these selfish rules, or else you won’t survive. Or so he says. Tales like these don’t shake easy, just ask Hank in A Simple Plan. They define you—like marrow in your bones—and will devour you whole.

In Eddington, Joe Cross is also insecure and selfish: preaching “community” but hating non-Eddingtonians, wanting nothing to do with covid or police violence yet wishing to be recognized for his heroics, wanting to have a connection with his wife but unable to put in the right work. What all these characters share is a desire to be heard, a complete inadequacy to reciprocate this need, a doubling-down of isolated behaviors and narcissistic views, and a final, self-inflicted reckoning with who we are, what we know, and who is left to share ourselves with.

A lot more is packed into the neon streams and windowpanes (how ‘bout the heavy-handed, but effective, shots of decaying fish), but what is equally fascinating—as I’m now in the phase of Coen fandom where their commentary is more fun to engage with—is how Blood Simple can be seen now.

After watching the film on criterion, you can go into their catalog and find at last ten videos of various craftsmen discussing it (Guillermo del Toro, Bill Hader, etc). You can also find David Bordwell mapping out the plot and the Coens, with cinematographer Barry Sonnenfeld, deconstruct how the film was shot. Using technology that had not been invented (the stylus and such), on a distribution company that functions mostly through the internet (not including the countless podcast episodes devoted to their filmography), we have, at our fingertips, more than two hours of the Coens and others teaching us about the film’s themes, influences, and production history. Bordwell diagnoses the film as Hitchcockian, not just neo-noir; del Toro drools over their intelligence; and the filmmakers themselves whine about how every shot is either out of focus or not lit correctly. Is it a “perfect movie” or is it embarrassingly made? Wrong question! as both can be true. What’s important, what is revolutionary is that everyone can access a fairly simplistic, extremely credible, online film school. More, on the newest 4K restoration, Sonnenfeld explains how shots which previously left in dolly tracks could now be easily erased using updated vfx methods. I know this might not seem novel now—considering, too, that the Coens have used the most advanced digital color-grade technologies at the time for O Brother, and were some of the first auteurs jumping on the Netflix bandwagon (just for short stint)—but it still leaves me stunned at how much access we have to these artists and historians, as well as a greater appreciation for the Coens simultaneous experimentation with this dynamic artform and their reticence to explain their films. Because, even if someone fawns over the style and learns how to do it better on the surface, they will never compete with the depth.

A vastly different watching experience was A Simple Plan which I saw on a random website in what looked like 480p. (I can’t wait for the Sam Raimi retrospective and a 4K restoration of this.)

A Simple Plan came about in this double feature formulation not because of the title (a happy accident looking back) but because Joel and Ethan worked on Evil Dead with Sam Raimi and the duo frequently cite their collaboration with him as an impetus to lean into the horror genre elements in Blood Simple—case in point, those shaky cam shots. Stacked side by side, they seem the perfect divergence of tones; analogous stories of normal people in over their heads after witnessing a crime.

Cementing the two as a golden tandem are the mirrored headlights of oncoming traffic. In Blood Simple—alongside the lights which illuminate the lane markers and the half-dead Marty—are those of the semi barreling down the highway ready to catch Ray in the act of murder. Or so he thinks. In that desolate landscape, the high beams furiously pass along with the realization that being caught was never in the cards—everyone is too focused on their own side of the road. Sheriff Carl Jenkins’ headlights in A Simple Plan bring this fear from nightmare to reality, into the center of a small town community. Both worlds depict sleepy towns where, if the money is right, legalities and morals can be stretched. But, we’re not in Texas anymore, where morality has long ago been squashed. There is nowhere to hide in Wright County. In this regard, Eddington finds more common ground: media and the masses (or nosy neighbors) eliminating our ability to escape our faulty decisions.

Wright County is also a place where people try to communicate with each other and avoid hostility at all costs. With Raimi at the helm, this place where nothing happens and everyone is ill-equipped for how they’d handle life-changing money is a playground for humor. A Simple Plan is the flip side to the Blood Simple coin insofar as both are predetermined vessels—just as we known someone will end up alone in Blood Simple, we know Hank will never use the cash—with their own flavors of intentional comedy.

Given these fated outcomes and the similar tone, there is satisfaction in sitting back and watching things all go awry. Raimi builds up the drama quite well. We feel for all the characters. Jacob, a paranoid loner with the simple dream of settling down with a girl is right in Billy Bob Thornton’s wheelhouse. He keeps the film off balance, but also supplies the most heart. Sarah and Hank are a great pair; Paxton playing the Everyman wrapped up in his delusions and Fonda vacillating between being the angel or devil on his shoulder. And Lou, the impulsive drunk whose selfishness is justifiable because of his position on the outskirts of the Mitchell clan. Every character’s reasons are valid; the execution is just (more than) a little extreme. Despite these deeply entwined marital and brotherly dynamics, and the love, full or strained, that The Mitchells and The Chambers have for one another, when the family units start to crumble, it’s incredible how laughably wrong things get. Because, more than anything else, Raimi is a jokester. A goofball who makes getting dragged to hell silly and a shootout on Main Street a Loony Toons cartoon. He’s a pothead jester who finds nothing more gratifying than unleashing a Pandora’s box of evil upon his characters.

So, when the snowball dislodges the downed plane, no matter how bleak or sterile the nature preserve or heartwarming the relationships, you know some shit’s about to get nutty. Bad decisions: check. Unnecessary violence: check. Avoidable disagreements: check. Crazed characters: check. Buffoons, all of them.

Real spoilers ahead…

When Jacob (headbutts?) or clobbers the old farmer, Dwight Stephanson, you can’t help but think: what the fuck are you doing? When Hank, instead of helping Dwight and placing blame on his brother, strangles Dwight and throws his snowmobile in the ditch (the wrong way), you’re again wondering: what the fuck is happening? You wonder the same thing when they kill Lou and his wife thinking they can mask their crime, as well as the coup de grâce when Hank kills Jacob even though the sheriff and the fake FBI guy are dead and you know they won’t be able to get away with the money. How dumb can you get? Raimi seems to be asking. Preposterously dumb.

Let’s be clear though, neither Blood Simple nor A Simple Plan are laugh out loud funny, but rather a stunned into silence funny. For all the goof, A Simple Plan reads as classic American tragedy. Hank is awfully serious in his opening and closing monologues. You think he’s an idiot, but you also can’t help but feel bad for him. Sorry to invoke Eddington again, but Hank, like Joe Cross, idolizes his father, molds himself into the same “happy man” life of simple pleasures. Though, we know that his father’s life wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows; halfway through, Jacob has to emphasize to him that their father’s drunk driving accident was actually a purposeful suicide. His whole life, Hank has sought to uphold an image and story of manhood which was never as perfect as it looked or sounded. Similarly in Eddington, characters inherit all the shit (good or bad) their parents leave behind, including all the false moral codes, clothes, stances, and memories that compose the outline of a human whose place you either feel the need to fill (out of deference or disorientation) or can’t forget if you tried. Bruce Springsteen has this wonderful quote in his Broadway show: “We are ghosts, or we are ancestors in our children’s lives. We either lay our mistakes, our burdens upon them and we haunt them. Or we assist them in laying those old burdens down, and we free them from the chain of our own flawed behavior. And as ancestors, we walk alongside of them, and we assist them in finding their own way and some transcendence.” Part of me thinks that the sickest joke that Aster and Raimi circle in these films is that the protagonist sons believe that they have found some transcendence, when, in fact, what they’ve identified is just the busted remains of a mythos that camouflages the parental apparition they will or have become. Sicker even is the fact that if the bills weren’t marked, the plan would’ve worked. Meaning, the other parts of the plan, stagging the murders of his brother and Lou that is, succeeded. Imagine being that good at something (with that much on the line) and still fucking it up.

In the barren worlds of Blood Simple and A Simple Plan, lives are fragile, crimes are easily masked, and punishments are eternally internal. They both end with characters facing their avoidable mistakes, facing the fact that they may not be “good” people or that they should’ve listened. And it’s not disturbing because they were greedy or stubborn, but because they were capable of so much effortless harm.

Part of the Coen Brothers’ appeal is the circular narratives embedded in each film; in the case of Blood Simple, the premonition of being alone coming to fruition. If I had one wish, it would be for Raimi to do the same. Scott B. Smith ends the 1993 book of which the film was adapted, with Hank throwing the money in the fire while holding his newborn in his arms. For a film that starts with his childhood’s paternal fantasy, it would’ve been great to end with him in his father’s place. It’s an image which Clint Eastwood employs marvelously at the end of Juror #2, where Nicolas Hoult’s character stares into his baby’s eyes—unflinching and innocent—and witnesses the overwhelming warmth of an accepting gaze asking him what kind of father will he be. How will he lead? What will he pass down to his child? Can he move forward with the ghosts of his past calling from the grave?