McDonagh is less saturated in film and pop culture than Tarantino and less prone than Kaufman to disappear down story wormholes.
The kind of messy, absurdist movie that can lift you out of a crappy mood-at least for a while.
This is one of the best times I've had at the movies in years.
All this narrative nesting and genre-skipping sounds very cerebral on the page, but in practice, Seven Psychopaths is as pleasurably kinetic as can be, full of double-crosses and gunplay and sun-kissed SoCal locations.
Each time it appears that McDonagh, who also directed, has written himself into a cul de sac, he off-roads the movie (sometimes literally) into fresh territory.
For about 75 minutes, Seven Psychopaths is a rollicking good movie - kinetic, clever, funny, and brutal. Then, inexplicably, it falls apart.
McDonagh sets real (and very different) moods for his stories-within-stories. The Los Angeles locations - apart from the obligatory Hollywood sign - seem fresh.
This flick never pretends to be anything but a bright hall of fun-house mirrors. And there, so gloriously distorted, gargoyles look right at home.
While "Seven Psychopaths" is indeed as crazy as it sounds, it's not nearly as smart as it thinks it is.