Movie review: Disappearances

by John P. Meyer

In the opening scene of director/scripter Jay Craven's Disappearances, mild-mannered William Bonhomme (referred to by his father somewhat hopefully as "Wild Bill") is walking to school in the company of his teacher, Cordelia - who also happens to be his aunt. Cordelia is portrayed by Geneviève Bujold, the delicate, distinguished, doe-eyed French actress who earned her chops in the 1966 film, King of Hearts.

"The world is out of joint, William," she proclaims, ominously and seemingly apropos of nothing; it's a balmy northern Vermont country afternoon, and William (Charlie McDermott, a bright looking lad with expressive eyes and a potential for acting talent that you won't see demonstrated in this outing) looks at her as if she's just slightly crazy. Which couldn't be further from the truth: she is, in fact, a total whack job, though this verbalization as to the contemporary state of things turns out to be her most lucid moment.

In the interest of grounding young William in north woods wisdom, Cordelia gives herself over to long-winded non sequitur declarations upon the nature of human perception, illusion and reality, frequently resorting to quotations from Milton and Shakespeare in order to lend her ramblings greater weight. She also appears in non-physical (though perfectly observable) form to William at key points during the expotition he undertakes with his ne'er-do-well father, Quebec Bill (Kris Kristofferson, last seen in The Wendell Baker Story).

While it's couched in terms of a manly rite of passage, this seat-of-the-overalls Canadian whiskey bootlegging venture ends up morphing into a textbook example of how not to plan and execute a heist.

See, good ol' Quebec Bill (lately ostracized by his neighbors for various thoughtless acts that end up costing them money, produce, or both) is one of those rustic, happy-go-unlucky, live-in-the-moment Québécois who take pride in thinking less than two moves ahead in all matters of importance - not unlike a rustic Cajun counterpart from another genre, the ne'er-do-well father of novelist James Lee Burke's Louisiana detective Dave Robicheaux, who - if he decided to carry out an illegal whiskey smuggling operation - would probably plan it out with equal aplomb. Which is to say, not at all.

The agenda calls for the two Bills to pick up a load of whiskey from an unspecified location in the remote Canadian woods and transport it back to prohibitionist Vermont, where it'll literally be worth its weight in gold. Maybe more. Accompanying our father/son team are ex-con hired hand Rat Kinneson (the delightful William Sanderson, still weird after all these years) and Quebec Bill's brother-in-law, Henry (Gary Farmer), who supplies wheels in the form of a pristine white Cadillac christened "White Lightning." Thanks to Bill (the elder), it doesn't stay pristine for long.

The crates of booze turn out to be of questionable ownership, and are currently in the possession of a semi-mythical personage known as Carcajou (that's French Canadian for "wolverine," just FYI). This Civil War uniform-wearing (alternately blue and gray) character is holed up in a backwoods enclave with his troupe of machine-gun wielding henchmen, playing cards and drinking vast quantities of the potent alcoholic product stored in the (unsecured) garage adjacent to the house.

So, here's the plan: our Vermont fellows (Bill, Bill, Rat and Henry) wait until daylight (!), back the Caddy up to the garage and start loading up crates of high-proof Canadian. Making lots of noise in the process. Unsurprisingly, the bad guys hear them as they load up the clinking boxes of bottles and come out with guns enough to shoot them dead several times over. Fortunately (or not, depending upon whether you, the viewer, are excited about subjecting yourself to a further hour of homespun solipsist philosophical ramblings and poorly-orchestrated action sequences), B. B. R. and H. manage to drive leisurely away from the fusillade completely unscathed; why, even the glass bottles of booze are mysteriously unaffected by the bullets which shatter the wooden slats of their crates and perforate the windscreen above them.

The rest of the homeward journey involves a series of incidents in which the relentless (and utterly goofy-looking) Carcajou pursues the stupid, stupid Americans despite being shot, knifed and poleaxed to death on numerous occasions. Man, I hope Lothaire Bluteau (who donned a white fright wig and the aforementioned assortment of uniforms for the part - not to mention a prosthetic axe) received scale for each of his several incarnations.

I suppose the convention of having objects and/or characters disappear at random during the course of events was intended to clue us in on the fact that this is intended to be a magical realist dramatic interpretation, but it would have been nice to have been forewarned of this in a film-goers version of CliffsNotes - as things stand, you may be somewhat shocked (as I was) when the train carrying the liberated whiskey suddenly vanishes as it chugs down the track. More disturbingly, Quebec Bill and Wild Bill actually leave poor Rat dangling by one arm from a tree, while in the other he's holding a case of whiskey that probably weighs more than himself. The characters (and the filmmaker) seem to just forget about him in all the excitement. Worse (from an action film lover's point of view), the shootout scenes are muddle-headedly staged and filled with such intense lapses in logic that they make me think Ed Wood had something to do with the choreography.

With a rite of passage such as this, there's just no telling what kind of adult poor Wild Bill will grow into. Best of luck, pal.

If you're a media consultant for these guys, catch Disappearances starting today (June 8) at the Inwood. Before it disappears.