Hype. Dangerous thing, hype. More often than not, it’s safer to heed the advice of Public Enemy and simply not believe it. It can devour a movie whole and shit it out the front end of a multiplex projector to nothing but hushed audience apathy. Kill List has endured quite a lot of hype since its debut at SXSW back in March, right through to its feverish reception at FrightFest last month. And somehow it’s weathered the storm, and emerged (almost) fully deserving of the lavish praise already heaped upon it. The best case scenario for seeing Kill List (as is the case with so many movies of its ilk) is to go in cold. And yes, that’s hypocrisy in action right there with that statement, but this is a spoiler-free zone. Suffice, if you've even read of Kill List being held up against other movies, there’s a good chance you’ve wrecked some of its delights straight out of the gate.
Nonetheless, a non-spoilery comparison is with the kitchen-sink dramas of Ken Loach and Lindsay Anderson – if their films had been shot through with a queasy dose of unflinching physical violence and a wry sense of dark humour. The movie focuses on former soldier-turned-contract killer Jay (Neil Gaskell) as he sulks in his suburban family home, rowing loudly with his wife Shel (MyAnna Buring) and condemning his young son Sam to potentially-lengthy future therapy sessions in the process. The worst’s most uncomfortable dinner party heralds the arrival of Gal (Michael Smiley), Jay’s best friend and sometime business partner. Gal has a proposition for Jay – a new job, comprising of a series of no-questions-asked assassinations. Desperate to ease tensions with Shel (and equally keen to fix his busted jacuzzi), Jay willingly accepts.
Of course, that’s merely the first act, but to delve deeper into Kill List’s creepy web of intrigue does a disservice to first-time viewers. Suffice, cracks begin to show on Jay’s icy exterior and all hell gradually begins to break loose. “Gradually” being the key phrase there – Kill List has a slow-building pressure cooker structure that keeps piling on the tension (partly through its characters and partly through its impressive sound design) to create an awesome sense of foreboding dread. When the fan and shit finally meet, the result is as chaotic as it is terrifying.
Director Ben Wheatley made the impressive Down Terrace a couple of years ago, and here he confirms he’s one of the best helmers working in British cinema at present. He milks a trio of great performances from the cast, whose contributions to the script give the dialogue a natural and believable rhythm. Smiley (best known as pill-munching club monster Tyres in Spaced) is particularly striking as the killer armed with just as many pithy one-liners as bullets.
If Kill List has a flaw, it’s that the third act can’t quite cash in the cheques its atmosphere has been writing all along. The blame can’t all be attributed to the film itself, though – there are only a finite amount of endings in the world, and Kill List’s is reminiscent of two deeply disturbingly ones. And given that one of those said endings is as recent as last year, accusations of plagiarism are hardly fair. A minor quibble then, for a film that delivers a steady stream of gut-punches and leaves you reeling as you exit the cinema, yet somewhat thirsty to dive right back in and experience it all over again.
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