This is all the viewing public deserves, yeah - an unfunny black comedy? The almost token serial killer. Unfortunate lover. Dramatic bitch of a girlfriend. The premise must have sounded too great. Indeed, there is only ever an odd aura given off by this friendly biopic of psychotic control under deep surveillance. Phoenix is dull, he is not even there as a character - he is more of a shadowy figure than the serial killer he could never be. Garofalo is miscast as the FBI agent, not seeming to know whether to pout or frown. The cheery Vaughn dominates the entire production. Then the movie ends and I turn to my viewing partner and I see that she is sipping a mug of hot tea. On her head is a ten-gallon hat. I burst out laughing as the end credits roll.
So, I don't get it, "What does it mean, Clay Pigeons?"
She sips her mug of tea, her face fixed in a mischievous smile. Words on her lips. Outside, a taxi turns up and disgorges four or five noisy revellers who start to pound on the walls with dub beats. I await her glassy-eyed revelation. "Drink your tea," she says. One day I may learn from her wisdom...