McGill reviews “Where the Crawdads Sing”
by: Jane McGill
Omaha, NE — The suspicion that will doubtlessly end up haunting moviegoers who had never heard of “Where the Crawdads Sing” prior to it becoming the inspiration to an otherworldly Taylor Swift ballad, it is the distinct sense that the novel upon which the film was based must have made for an interesting read. The story hinges upon a strange amalgamation of murder mystery and youthful romance set in 1960s North Carolina. Following 19-year old Kyra (Daisy Edgar-Jones), who is the prime suspect in the murder of a Chase Andrews (Harris Dickinson), a popular and promising young man in the coastal town of Berkeley Cove, Kyra recalls her tumultuous past after being left to fend for herself in the marshlands as a child, where she lived alone until falling for two young men from town.
The book became a near instantaneous literary phenomenon destined for cinematic adaptation. Yet, bringing the twisting tale of the marsh girl to the silver screen was bound to be a momentous task for any willing to undertake it, both because of the unconventional structure of its plot and the murky ethics surrounding the book’s creation, as the crime that sets the story in motion shares some eerie similarities with a murder committed in 1996 that the author, conservationist Delia Owens, is wanted for questioning in connection to. Director Olivia Newman and screenwriter Lucy Alibar seem unsure of how to approach either the literary or authorial nuances of the source material they are attempting to adapt and the end result is surprisingly inept, scrupulously constructing the ethereal atmosphere of its setting but often sorely lacking in the way of substance to underlie it.
The movie drifts between its two storylines with the gracefulness of a drunken wastrel, crafting a viewing experience that feels unmistakably perfunctory. While framed from the outset as the unraveling of a mystery, the movie quickly degenerates into a recap of Kyra’s entire life up to her arrest, running through the formative events of her youth, irrespective of whether they have any bearing on the murder trial whatsoever. The characters that inhabit the wistful world of the marsh are surprisingly rudimentary, scarcely boasting more than a personality trait or two. The only character which feels properly developed is Kyra herself, although my emotional investment in her was mostly prompted by Edgar-Jones’ breathtakingly eloquent performance.
It’s certainly no help that the filmmaking on display throughout the movie is tirelessly mechanical, conveying information and hitting the necessary story beats while rarely giving any moment in the story the sense of emotional levity they deserve. There is a sense that the novel may have contained some greater meaning to it, yet any themes that may have been present in the source material have been entirely brushed over in the interest of a storytelling approach that burdens the audience with an overabundance of plot. Ultimately, “Where the Crawdads Sing” would have benefited by perhaps being a tad more ethically dubious, as its hesitance to engage with the anything beyond the mechanical movements of its plot and characters makes the film adaptation of Owens’ is far too superficial to make for anything more than a mildly diverting two hours at the movies.
