depravity and gravity have always got a grasp on me.

Well, of course, I could not stop myself from racing out to see the newest Coen Brothers foray that is Burn After Reading, but I had no trouble procrastinating on a review.  Lest not one be too hasty; this particular breed of black humor comedy usually warrants a day or two to mull over its content before racing to report. I’ve always saved a special place in my dark heart for the Coen brothers, proudly calling Fargo and Raising Arizona two of my all-time favorite flicks.  They have successfully created an empire unto themselves boasting two starkly varying genre of film that are both inevitably Coen by design – the bleak, black, and highly humorous (see: Barton Fink, The Big Lebowski, The Hudsucker Proxy), and the deep, dark, and unnervingly nuanced yet masterfully composed (a la: No Country for Old Men, The Man Who Wasn’t There, Blood Simple).  Burn After Reading, which boasts a roundhouse of namely regulars such as Frances McDormand, George Clooney, and Richard Jenkins, falls neatly into the fangs of the black and the bleak.

Burn thrives on the incendiary foible that is the work of more than a few bumbling idiots.  A hot-headed and recently wronged government operative (played nauseatingly well by John Malkovich) aims to pen his collective memoirs upon termination due to his ”drinking problem” (“You’re a Mormon. Compared to you we all have a drinking problem”).  When his personal files are discovered by a depressed and down-on-her-luck fitness instructor (McDormand), she employs the aid of her puppy-like pal (an incredibly wacky Brad Pitt) in hopes of exploiting what she believes to be of great importance.  Enter George Clooney as a paranoid ladies’ man, and you’ve got a recipe for, well, a dementedly good time.

This certainly isn’t the grandest or the smartest of the Coen’s films, it lagged at certain points and relied much on its acting to carry it along.  However, there is something so vividly poignant about the character development that begs forgiveness for its ludicrousness.  As films go, it prevailed enough to become a good suggestion for your screwball friends.  It’s entertaining, and murky, and sick, sad, and slick.  It’s a large notch in the right direction of the Coens’ belt, and it has their mark emblazoned all over it, complete with spontaneous bloodshed and highly dynamic characters.  My mother sent me a simple review via text message which seemed to wrap it up much better than I could in three simple words:  ”Wild, wacky fun.” Hmm… “Excellent job, Mom.”  Well, there you go.