Hirsch and McConaughey in Killer Joe.

Director William Friedkin has always been attracted to lurid movie material. From the gruesome, overcooked The Exorcist to the vile and unhinged Cruising, he craves plots about deeply conflicted characters who are hopelessly alienated, disconnected from both the society that surrounds them and even their own lives. One craves another well-crafted action nail-biter like his Oscar-winning The French Connection, but at 76, his view of the world just gets darker than ever. Small wonder, then, that he has found his literary soulmate in Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Tracy Letts, whose twisted, controversial and fascinating work has found its way to the screen through Mr. Friedkin’s jaundiced camera twice—first in the repellant schizophrenic thriller Bug, and now in the toxic trailer-trash thriller Killer Joe. When this sick, ludicrous cocktail of sex, violence and mayhem was first unveiled a year ago at the Toronto International Film Festival, one wag aptly described it as “the ghost of Tennessee Williams meets the spirit of Quentin Tarantino.” For shock value, cut to Gina Gershon, crawling across a filthy kitchen floor covered in blood to perform fellatio at gunpoint on a Colonel Sanders drumstick, and you have a high-water mark in tastelessness that gives depravity a bad name.

The inbred lowlifes in this B-movie black comedy are members of the Smith family, a clan of troglodytes in a seedy Texas trailer park replete with vicious barking dogs on chains, who swing into ruthless high gear from the very first scene, when penny-ante drug dealer Chris Smith (a game turn by Emile Hirsch, who has grown from the appealing, open-faced kid in The Emperor’s Club into a scabby, hirsute roughneck) arrives in a torrential rainstorm and is greeted at the screen door by his father’s new wife Sharla with a female full-frontal. Following a drug deal that went sour when his own mother stole the cocaine and kicked him out of her house, Chris is broke, desperate and not exactly lit by all four burners on the stove, on the lam from the good ole boys on motorcycles who want money or murder. But Chris has a plan: his mother’s $50,000 life insurance policy. If his mentally challenged, beer-swilling father Ansel (Thomas Haden Church), who works as a grease monkey at Bob’s Muffler Shop, and his sluttish stepmom Sharla, a former stripper who works in a pizza parlor, will help, they can knock off Chris’s drunken mom (and Ansel’s ex-wife), pay off the debt, split the profits, and have enough dough left over to improve their lifestyle—maybe get out of the trailer and move up in the world, to a tract house with aluminum siding near a 7-Eleven.

To make sure the job goes off without a hitch, Chris has even hired a contract hitman who never fails—a psychotic cop in a Stetson hat and skin-tight jeans called Killer Joe Cooper (Matthew McConaughey) who moonlights as an assassin. The first problem: they can’t pay his $25,000 fee until they collect the life insurance, so Killer Joe agrees to take Chris’s nubile, thumb-sucking, baby doll sister Dottie (Juno Temple) as a retainer for his services. Chris and his dad are reluctant to pimp out their nubile Lolita for a killer’s bounty, but their survival instincts outweigh all feelings of morality and guilt. Besides, her daddy says, “It might just do her some good.” Second problem: What they don’t know is that Dottie’s mom (who is talked about but never seen) has made her the secret recipient of the insurance policy, and Dottie has her own ideas about what to do with the money. Nor does she completely mind the idea of losing her virginity to the swaggering, seductive and studly Joe and keeping the money herself. As the plot turns brutal, the psychopaths turn greedy—especially Ansel’s wife and partner-in-crime, Sharla (Ms. Gershon, shedding more than just her underwear and baring all)—lying, ruthlessly cheating each other and facing the ultimate consequences, in a curdled, rampaging splatterfest finale that sprays blood all over the walls and leaves almost the entire cast on the floor with their guts hanging out. Because the characters are all equally loathsome and stupid, you are never sure if the hilarity is intentional, but I guarantee you the antics of this dysfunctional chicken-fried family will make you gasp and laugh at the same time. Oddly enough, it’s the juxtaposition of comedy and horror that keeps Tracy Letts’ screenplay balanced between entertainment and nausea and highlights the highs and lows of Mr. Friedkin’s fast-paced, pulp fiction, film-noir direction. They can both thank the fearless cast for their passionate willingness to do anything—and everything—for maximum effect. Kicked and beaten by a man’s fists to human hamburger, Ms. Gershon is both amusing and appalling as she pushes the degradation of women beyond the boundaries of political correctness. Even Mr. McConaughey, a terrible actor with no craft or range who whistles through his teeth like a tea kettle until you climb the wall, seems more natural than usual, staggering around in his birthday suit, with his whining Texas accent used to good advantage. He even manages to give Killer Joe a mix of kink and tenderness, finding unexpected down-home joy in something as simple as a home-cooked tuna casserole. Ms. Temple’s thumb-sucking Dottie has erotic moments, but nothing Carroll Baker in a nightie didn’t think of first in Baby Doll. Mr. Friedkin imparts an ugly Texas landscape of convenience stores, pizza joints, auto repair shops and cheap motels to show the downfall of decaying blue-collar America with harrowing effect.

In the final analysis, the atmosphere overwhelms the logic. There is no subtext to the carnage; we hold out no hope that these clueless wretches will learn or grow or stretch beyond the depth of a mug of Lone Star draft. The narrative ideas come from better movies as varied as Double Indemnity, Tobacco Road and Fargo. I confess I found the uncompromising trashiness perversely riveting, until the ending, which pours on the gore like barbecue sauce. It sends you home reeling, but wondering what the point of it was, and why so many worthwhile people bothered to do it in the first place.

rreed@observer.com

KILLER JOES

Running Time 103 minutes

Written by Tracy Letts

Directed by William Friedkin

Starring Matthew McConaughey, Emile Hirsch and Juno Temple

2/4

Temple and Dozier.

The title character in Dirty Girl must have been written for Madonna. The movie is a randy romp about a road trip between a bottle blonde bimbo and a gay, overweight blob that heads for a brick wall early and stays there. Trashy, teenaged Danielle (Juno Temple) is a mess. Dressed in striped, low-cut, middy tops, killer hot pants and boots, with too much mascara and a permanent scowl only half-hidden behind huge pink-tint sunglasses, her schoolmates scoff at her behind her back, labeling her the campus slut. Easily distracted from everything but boys, slovenly about homework and indifferent to the town’s conventional ideas of morality, she’s a misfit in Norman, Okla., “back in the day.”

Forced into a remedial education program for disciplinary purposes, Danielle is mortified to be forcibly paired with an outcast blob named Clarke (Jeremy Dozier), a not-so-latent homosexual who is always being threatened with military school by his strict, bewildered parents (Mary Steenburgen and Dwight Yoakam). Danielle’s stepmother (Milla Jovovich) is an equally louche underachiever and reformed tramp who has become a born-again religious nut. Worse yet, she’s engaged to a loopy Mormon preacher (William H. Macy) who is determined to rehabilitate them both. Clearly, it is time to run away from home. “If you’re not careful you’re gonna end up an overweight homo with nobody to love you but a gerbil named Bruce,” says Danielle. Desperate to escape, the class dirty girl and the class closet case (every school has at least one of each) hit the highway in search of Danielle’s real father, hoping to find, love, family and acceptance.

After a meandering start, the movie gets even duller once this odd couple forges a reluctant friendship and heads cross-country, learning more about the ultimate value of sharing. On their way to California, they pick up a male stripper hitchhiking his way to Vegas and Clarke loses his virginity before their stolen car breaks down. I forgot to mention their traveling companion is a flour sack with a face painted on, which they pretend is their baby Joan (named after Joan Jett and Joan Crawford). I guess it’s supposed to be a touching look at marginalized characters looking for a reason to keep going in a society that hates them, but the lame direction by Abe Sylvia seems less interested in exploring these pathetic Dogpatch stereotypes than in making fun of them. Is the regrettable sight of Dwight Yoakam masturbating on his Cadillac in an unnecessary car wash sequence supposed to be even funnier than the fat boy doing a strip tease drenched in water in front of a Confederate flag? To ensure a happy ending, a ludicrously sentimental ending has been tacked on that is not remotely convincing. Dirty Girl is a bad movie with no insights that is broadly drawn and genuinely plagued by filthy dialogue. You don’t laugh. You just wince, and wonder how the whole thing ever got financed.

rreed@observer.com

DIRTY GIRL

Running Time 90 minutes

Written and Directed by Abe Sylvia

Starring Juno Temple, Jeremy Dozier and Milla Jovovich

2/4