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Based on Pete Dexter's first novel, and one of Philip Seymour Hoffman's last films, it's (very vaguely) set 30-odd years ago in some East Coast rustbelt

town, where a stupid kid has gotten himself killed. No one mourns him except his mother, whose second husband is now on the hook for the funeral expenses.

 

Expenses he can't quite cover, as his heist of some sides of beef hasn't exactly brought in the money it was supposed to, and his picks at the bookie's are

all coming up losers. So enter some loan sharks. Also a belligerent mortician, cops, a nosy reporter and enough gin-blossomed drunks to float a sequel to

 

"Barfly."Slattery — a "Mad Man" star, who's previous directed several episodes of the show — makes his movie debut here with some assurance. The violence (except for

one badly thrown punch) is quick and realistically staged, and everything is bathed in the murky, yellow light of failure.

Yet, as an actor himself, Slattery seems a little too eager to believe that people can blithely transcend their physical types.

 

The late Hoffman, for example, was one of our finest performers, but I still have trouble accepting him as a guy named Mickey Scarpatto. Nor does "Mad Men"

vet Christina Hendricks look like someone who has quietly languished for years in a tiny tumbledown town.

 

There is quite a bit that feels real here (like the way construction workers close ranks to protect one of their own) and some purposefully awkward black

comedy (like an unburied body that ends up in the back of a meat truck). Dexter had recently left daily journalism when this book was published, and it's

informed by fact and memory.

 

But other incidents seem pushed so far they're nearly parody, like the malicious undertaker played by Eddie Marsan. Or Richard Jenkins' smalltown

newspaperman, who is both ridiculously venerated and almost impossibly alcoholic (he not only drinks 17 screwdrivers at a sitting, but then brings an adoring

young fan home with him).

 

It is, of course, both wonderful and horribly depressing to see Hoffman again, who — even if he makes for a very unlikely Italian butcher — is so delicate

and economical in every scene, particularly in those he shares with John Turturro (toned down, for once, thank heavens). And Jenkins is, as always a

dependable presence.