If you're thinking Hollywood doesn't love to dunk on the small-town USA, think again. "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri," released in 2017, is yet another award-draped venture into a world where rural communities are painted in hues of dysfunction, despair, and disturbance. Directed by Martin McDonagh, this film unravels the frustrations of a mother, Mildred Hayes, played by Frances McDormand, who installs three billboards to shame the local law enforcement in Ebbing, Missouri. Why? Because they failed to solve the horrendous case of her daughter's unsolved murder.
Let's tackle the supposed brilliance of this plot, shall we? First, we have to admire the flawless Hollywood ability to make the small-town cops look incompetent. If you were to believe McDonagh's take, you'd think every rural police department is filled with clueless, corrupt buffoons who only care about their reputation. Funny how the left coast conveniently ignores the reality of most small-town officers' dedication and community commitment.
Next, enter our "heroine" Mildred Hayes. Don't get me wrong, losing a child is a parent's worst nightmare. But using outrage and billboards as a public spectacle to harass the police? That's a Hollywood approach if there ever was one. McDormand's character reminds us that anger and vengeance are the answers. Forget about trust and due process—just throw everyone under the bus and hope screaming into the void gets the right ear.
Let's address the irony of claiming moral high ground in a community while resorting to arson, violence, and breaking the law. The narrative contorts itself to make this behavior noble, as though destruction will somehow sow seeds of justice. It's as if seeing someone's property on fire or watching a person get beaten elicits applause rather than heartbreak. Funnily enough, might makes right, if the villain of the day deserves it. Hollywood loves redeeming ideas of this nature but veils it under layers of complexity to make its flaws palatable.
Then there's the magic of the ensemble cast. Woody Harrelson portrays the ailing yet nonchalant police chief Willoughby with the usual shrug, reinforcing the tired stereotype of the lax authority figure who realizes his errors too late. More interestingly, Sam Rockwell plays a dim-witted, rage-fueled officer, Dixon, who somehow transforms from a blatant racist into a sympathetic character. It's one of those narrative leaps that throw character consistency out the window, yet people will call it Oscar material. Why is it always virtue dashed with some vice that gets the nods?
Why didn't Hollywood just stick with realism here? Because it's too irresistible to cook up a cocktail of human flaws that paints the heartland as a place where each character is more lost than the last. How wonderfully cliché to see the over-simplified juxtaposition of vengeance versus justice. Complex dialogue and iconic performances don't distort the bias resting underneath.
It's peculiar how a film can snatch the awards and headlines for narratives that exhibit such vitriol and disdain for small-town values. But then, isn't it that kind of truth-bending that fuels the industry—feeding New York and LA evening parties, where suburban simplicity is criticized, and coastal prowess is exalted?
With "Three Billboards," it's not just a story on screen. It serves as a cultural commentary, perhaps unintentionally, illustrating the disconnect between Hollywood's interpretations of middle America and the way these communities actually hold themselves together. It's a tale not just about the characters in the script, but about how we frequently view and discuss heartland America in contemporary narratives.
All in all, "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri" is a testimony to what happens when narrative brilliance meets ideological myopia. Isn't it something to see a film wrapped in awards and praise, yet seeping with a lens so twisted and theatrical that it begs the question: what version of reality is it selling? Let's hope mainstream narratives start giving small-town America the nuance it deserves, rather than defaulting to yet another tale drenched in melancholy where we're encouraged to doubt the very fabric binding these communities together.