Saw "In Bruges" last night, and thought it was terrific. Two assasins - whose relationship brings to mind Steinbeck's George and Lenny - are lying low in a quiet, medieval Belgian town, Bruges. They turn up there shortly after one of them has unwittingly commited a crime so heinous that it appalls even the murderous ranks of London's hoodlums. Bruges turns out to be so dull and inescapable that one would think Samuel Beckett its architect; and what few absurd distractions the town does offer aren't enough to keep the two men's thoughts from their depraved pasts. What is Bruges then? Sartre's Hell? Purgatory? All that's certain is that it's a place where evil has time to think of itself, and tremble. The filmmakers show us honor and innocence in the villainous, and while this is hardly a revolutionary notion, rarely is it done so well. The dénoument, a tribute to the Boschian paintings the characters look at earlier in the film, is especially self-reflexive. All the world's a stage, and the performance an absurd tragicomedy! What sets "In Bruges" apart is also its lesson: that it knows when not to take itself seriously.
