The opening shots of Clint Eastwood's Mystic River are clipped and simple: a city by a river (South Boston, serving here as archetype of the post-industrial American city as faded remnant); a second-floor porch in a neighborhood that has seen better days, where two men drink beer and talk about sports; the street below where three young boys are playing. A moment later a car will pull up and—with the kidnapping of one of the boys by two pedophiles masquerading as a cop and a priest—inaugurate a cycle of violence that takes the rest of the movie to play itself out. Little of the violence will appear on screen, yet its presence will be felt in virtually every frame: we will be reminded at each instant of the memory, the dread, the threat, or the lingering aftermath of violence, the residue of psychic pain that will nurture some fresh evil. Victims will become victimizers, and victimizers themselves come to be seen as the helpless agents of a destiny just beyond their control.
Review, 4484 words
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