Thoroughbreds

Jazz/fusion cello isn’t my forte.  In fact, had you asked me yesterday to name you a single practitioner thereof, I couldn’t do it.  Now I can: Erik Friedlander.  And it’s all thanks to his work as the composer for Thoroughbreds.

From the get-go, Friedlander’s score hits you with an avant-garde-leaning collection of vaguely tribal percussion, occasional dalliances with modern pop-folk (think of the last commercial you’ve seen for a company specializing in outdoors-y apparel), string plucks reminiscent of arcane music boxes, and strident drags along strings (I assume they’re cello strings, but that’s only speculation as of this moment).  Indeed, these drags often evoke images of demented equine screeches, something not out of tonal place for this film.  Friedlander builds his sounds right along with peaks in tension and action, increasing both the volume and the amount of sonic layers.  It’s an effectively unnerving and mildly haunting score, perfect for a film centering around upper-class teen angst.

The teens in question, Anya Taylor-Joy and Olivia Cooke, are, as Hal Sparks once described the Brat Pack in VH-1’s I Love the ’80s, pretty people with problems.  These two were once childhood friends, apparently taken with equestrianism, who are now awkwardly rebuilding their friendship at the behest of Cooke’s mother.  Cooke, y’see, was recently involved in a grisly act, and she currently is showing signs of some sort of dissociation (my terminology, not hers, so I could be off here); meanwhile, ATJ is knee-deep in teenage ennui and rich-kid sociopathy, most of which is targeted toward her stepfather, who’s reaching the end of his patience with her.  The two grow close once more and concoct a scheme to rid themselves of what they see as their problems.

For a full-length debut, this is quite the cotillion ball for Cory Finley, who showcases a refined eye and a way with sardonic dialogue.  His shots have a determined sense of patience, lingering silently while things play out organically before us.  His characters are fairly well fleshed-out, despite a decided dearth of background exposition, the trickle of which that we’re given giving us all we really need to know when we need to know it.  Most of all, Finley’s take on the disaffected wealthy seems pretty damn barbed, though it’s certainly subtle enough to get away with it.  The link between the well-to-do, ostensibly innocent young women, and horses is an interesting one to make, bringing in concepts like posh breeding, proper handling and training (ie. schooling), unconscious exploitation, and captive and bridled wildness.  This connection, combined with a collectedly dark pacing and tone, provides plenty of unease toward internal societal pressures and fissures that are often mentioned but rarely openly discussed.  The sound of an upstairs, out-of-sight rowing machine, with its distinct drone and inherent designation of opulence, underlines the building unease and mania, an upper-crust Telltale Heart in reverse.  Rather than blending Heathers and American Psycho, as others have said (and I can see it, too), this seems more to me a sexless amalgam of Cruel Intentions and Wild Things with a healthy coating of black shellac (and an enhanced competence on both sides of the camera).

Finley’s actors all do their jobs rather well, with Taylor-Joy (continuing her ascent as one of Hollywood’s most talented young’ns) and Cooke easily carrying things between them.  Standing out more than expected is Anton Yelchin in what has become his final role, showing more ability, nuance, and interest than most of the roles he was given.  If you’ve been following my trek through some of Yelchin’s other roles under the guidance of Miss Cleo, you’ll know that I’ve increasingly grown impressed with Yelchin’s work, but he hit it out of the park with his somewhat brief time on screen here.  “It’s our time, muthafucka,” he says, seemingly unaware of how right he is about the fortunes of both the characters and the actors, while some irony is exhibited when the situations of his character and himself are brought into play.

Thoroughbreds is not for everyone, what with its dark tone, quirky style, and off-putting yet engrossing score, but it certainly worked for me.  If you’ve always wanted to see the logical extreme of Daria meld with the themes of American Psycho, I’d give this a shot.  It’s relatively short, it’s effective, and it leaves you with a sense of anxiety similar to that at the end of Whiplash.  Based on this debut, we’ve got a new creative voice to watch, and he’s not watering himself down.  Good times.