The distinction between murder, manslaughter and self-defence is one that continues to grow more appropriate in America with each passing year. How does one determine the truth when only one key witness is available to divulge in their perspective? Especially when the odds are in their favour by accidentally shooting a "wanted felon" in the eye. The police view it as heroism. The general public questioning its intent. The victim's father overwhelmed with rage and demented turmoil, threatening the safety of the family thrown into the icy-cold chills of crime.
Mickle's intentionally masculine crime thriller is one that evokes themes of fatherhood. The paternal rights and responsibilities of their children who may, or may not, be following the path of sin. Ever increasing the protectorship of their guardian figure for the sake of the family they have lovingly crafted. It's a natural instinct. To protect our own flesh and blood, no matter the cost. But what if that expenditure is too severe? What if their existence is causing suffering to others? The morality of these two fathers, the shooter and the victim's patriarch, is tested through unlawful extremities. Challenges that conjure inner turmoil. And it's only through Mickle's astute direction do we as viewers journey down this careening route of masculinity.
What starts off as a simplistic revenge thriller soon complicates itself into an absorbingly comedic drama, whilst still shrouded in pulpy neo-noir aesthetics. Grace's booming synthesised score and Samul's ornate use of vivid neon backdrops cement the noir elegance. Yet it's Mickle's insistence in shifting genres, adding a quirky aura of surrealism to the mix, that acts as gritty adhesive. Does it work? Not quite. The brutal tension that is meticulously built up in the first hour is palpable. Slow panning through tight corridors. Strikes of lightning illuminating the bleak darkness of 80's Texas. The atmosphere compact with nullified thrills.
Then the plot thickens. The local police become involved, a recruited Private Investigator struts his stuff and suddenly the genre changes. Intrinsic comedy is injected through Johnson's character, contrasting against Shepard and Hall's intimidatingly serious performances. Unfortunately, this relieves the suffocating tension that preceded it, relying on a clichéd yet stylistic conclusive shootout with moments of jarring humour. Whilst it does add characterisation, Mickle's screenplay rarely furthers itself by being weighed down by overly basic dialogue. Conversational scenes, particularly between the two fathers, seemed muted. Lacking in fire and anger. If the script had been tighter with some sharper tongues for the characters, the complacent genre shift would've been more forgiving. The two were unable to mesh cohesively.
That's not a detriment to the overall technicality and theatricality of Cold In July. It remained bitterly deadly throughout and utterly watchable. If only the script had been tighter and the narrative differences more seamless when transitioning, we could've had ourselves an incredibly rare hidden gem of noir excellence.
