The Voices is ‘a dark comedy about a serial killer’, which is not an overcrowded genre, and I think we can now plainly see for why. I was up for it, initially. The buzz around the film had been good. ‘Unexpectedly pleasurable’, GQ. ‘Wild and hilarious’, Hollywood Reporter. Which just goes to show: never, ever trust reviews. This is a hateful and repellent and empty film. This is not pleasurable, unexpectedly, expectedly, or otherwise and it is neither wild nor hilarious. I bitterly resent each of the 104 minutes I gave to it, and I say that as someone who never has anything better to do. It may even be that I’ll never read another review again.
This is directed by Marjane Satrapi, whose first film, Persepolis, was a charming animation based on her own coming of age in Iran, so God knows what happened here. We can only hope she has since drawn the curtains, draped a cold flannel over her forehead, had a lie-down, and is over it now. It is set in Milton, a small American town that comes highly stylised in the visual manner of John Waters or Wes Anderson or even the Coen brothers, so nothing new to report here. In particular, it is set at the Milton Bathtub Factory, where everyone wears pink overalls and where all the pink forklifts will dance in unison, although I couldn’t tell you why. I can only tell you the tone of this is all over the place. Slashings in the woods one minute, dancing pink forklifts the next. Go figure.
Our hero, if he’s that, is Jerry (Ryan Reynolds), who works in the shipping and packing department and seems like a harmless, happy man-child. He is excited about the work barbecue, and lusts after Fiona (Gemma Arterton), the hottie from accounts, and if you want to know what kind of film this is in one sentence, it’s the kind of film that has a Fiona from accounts in it.
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