Death in Texas, the third feature film from director and screenwriter Scott Windhauser, carries the same exaggerated drama and action thriller ambitions of his prior work. Ronnie Gene Blevins plays Billy Walker, a psychologically haunted felon recently let out on parole for a mysterious and violent crime. He’s reunited with his mother, Grace (Lara Flynn Boyle), only to discover she is dying of liver cancer. Walker finds himself drawn back into a life of crime when he decides to find his mother a much-needed liver transplant. What follows is a simultaneously overwrought and underwhelming tale of familial love and crime.
The film acts as part neo-noir, part Western thriller. Bad guys are referred to as cowboys, and we get sweeping shots of the American southwest. The director utilizes long camera shots which elongate rooms and increase the sense of grandeur, or close up and intimate shots of emotional reactions. It’s a classic story of a lone wolf up against powerful forces, including a drug cartel. We are supposed to buy into this dramatic, fable-like story and its characters: a tortured soul who commits acts of violence but has good intentions; a loving and devoted mother with a string of dirtbag boyfriends; a ruthless cartel boss; a smooth barkeep. Title cards even introduce segments of the film with iconic themes, bold and elegant white text across the screen proclaiming “evil,” “free,” “retribution” and so on.
Death in Texas aims to be entertaining and gritty, streamlined and stylish. But what we get instead is a film that doesn’t embrace or maintain the tension and action it begins with. Windhauser doesn’t provide the adequate character development or motivation to make us care about the characters. Boyle and Bruce Dern, who plays wicked cartel boss Reynolds, ham it up nicely in broad performances. Boyle comes across as sweet and heartfelt in the narrow range she’s allowed in her mother role. Dern plays his villain with alternating over-the-top and then lazy ruthlessness.
The opening scenes of the film set up an interesting mystery; Reynolds sings “You Are My Sunshine” in a low and haunting tone, then we move to Walker’s parole hearing. Walker speaks allusively of the evil of the world, shares a few details of his sad life story, and we see flashes of his prior violence. A parole officer delivers a file that convinces the parole board to free him. This sets up the expectation of a complex backstory, a larger purpose, which is never realized. His character’s brooding mask doesn’t allow the opposing character traits―good impulses vs. violent intentions―to emerge. When Walker is violent, his violence comes out of the blue, his pain unexplained and unexplored. The film aims for a straightforwardness that instead leaves us without depth or clear progression in events. Why does Walker act the way he does? What are his motivations, and the motivations of others in the film? When we do find out, we are told and not shown.
Dialogue designed to be grandiose or sly declarations are instead generic statements: “no one talks about the grey, real life lives in the grey,” or “I’m not a bad guy, but sometimes we do fucked up shit in this world.” These lines often fall flat. Meanwhile, a score filled with guitars and bass that aims to build folksy suspense instead overpowers scenes.
One of the more unexpected (although eventually trite) subplots of the film consists of a romance between Boyle’s Grace and a hospital worker John, played by Stephen Lang. Lang commits to the role of a tortured, charming, loving former doctor who falls in love with Grace. It’s nice to be able to dwell with these two characters’ interactions and see their sparks of chemistry, amongst the endless, self-serious scowling. But ultimately, Death in Texas fails to provide the engaging, thrilling bit of escapism it so clearly intends and instead leaves us hanging.
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