The Killing of John Lennon
Directed by Andrew Piddington
Factual consistency predicates the narrative in The Killing of John Lennon, but Andrew Piddington’s re-creation of Lennon assassin Mark David Chapman’s descent into murderous insanity is hardly a procedural investigation into psychological disarray. The director’s goal—to accurately depict Chapman’s deranged motivation and the chaotic aftermath of the shooting—should be a warning sign: Embellishment helps to define the art of character exploration. But it turns out that The Killing of John Lennon is an enticingly dramatic representation of despair in addition to striking a provocative tone.
Newcomer Jonas Ball, as the soon-to-be-killer, speaks in mumbled expressions and shrinks into the pathetic nature of Chapman’s obsession. While not siding with the guy, Piddington establishes something better than pathos: immersion. The sprawling account of Chapman’s 1980 journey from Hawaii to New York almost manages to rebuff the obvious critiques of the endeavor. The first person narrative, culled from Chapman’s testimonies and interviews, strikes a tone between self-deprecation and apathy—the state of mind that Chapman now claims to harbor.
Considering the resolute absence of glorification, it’s pretty much impossible to characterize Piddington’s intentions as vile. Nevertheless, his project (which took four years to complete) works best when focused on the story, rather than the merits of telling it. When Ball intones on the soundtrack that the murder was “the nail in the coffin of the ’60s,” Chapman’s shamefully pompous self-analysis goes unquestioned. Piddington clearly has no pity for his subject, but he does demonstrate an unmistakable interest in his plight. Could The Killing of John Lennon function as a preventive mechanism? Probably not, but it’s meticulously inoffensive design earns its right to exist.
In notes included with publicity materials for the film, Piddington makes disparaging references to Chapter 27, the yet-to-be-released studio production featuring Lindsay Lohan and Jared Leto. Noting the absence of a “false girlfriend in the final weekend [that] might allow us to cast two Hollywood stars,” Piddington asserts that his film contains “not a single conceit.” Problem is, film is pure conceit. The filmmaker’s manifestation of the events is purely representational—no archival footage of Chapman comes into the picture. But even if the movie fails the director’s daring goal, it retains a sensible exposition with immersive forward motion, and benefits from the skill behind the camera.
Chapman’s infamous obsession with The Catcher in the Rye arises as the chief haunting ingredient. Calling it “one of the most brilliant studies of adolescence,” Chapman decides that Holden Caulfield, J.D. Salinger’s icon of teen discontent, “doesn’t fit in anywhere, and I don’t.” Since Chapman intended to embody the character, The Killing of John Lennon might be the closest thing to the big screen realization of Holden Caulfield, considering Salinger’s continuing unwillingness to permit the production of an adaptation. At the very least, it’s a good place to start: Unlike Chapman, The Killing of John Lennon is no phony.
Directed by Andrew Piddington
Factual consistency predicates the narrative in The Killing of John Lennon, but Andrew Piddington’s re-creation of Lennon assassin Mark David Chapman’s descent into murderous insanity is hardly a procedural investigation into psychological disarray. The director’s goal—to accurately depict Chapman’s deranged motivation and the chaotic aftermath of the shooting—should be a warning sign: Embellishment helps to define the art of character exploration. But it turns out that The Killing of John Lennon is an enticingly dramatic representation of despair in addition to striking a provocative tone.
Newcomer Jonas Ball, as the soon-to-be-killer, speaks in mumbled expressions and shrinks into the pathetic nature of Chapman’s obsession. While not siding with the guy, Piddington establishes something better than pathos: immersion. The sprawling account of Chapman’s 1980 journey from Hawaii to New York almost manages to rebuff the obvious critiques of the endeavor. The first person narrative, culled from Chapman’s testimonies and interviews, strikes a tone between self-deprecation and apathy—the state of mind that Chapman now claims to harbor.
Considering the resolute absence of glorification, it’s pretty much impossible to characterize Piddington’s intentions as vile. Nevertheless, his project (which took four years to complete) works best when focused on the story, rather than the merits of telling it. When Ball intones on the soundtrack that the murder was “the nail in the coffin of the ’60s,” Chapman’s shamefully pompous self-analysis goes unquestioned. Piddington clearly has no pity for his subject, but he does demonstrate an unmistakable interest in his plight. Could The Killing of John Lennon function as a preventive mechanism? Probably not, but it’s meticulously inoffensive design earns its right to exist.
In notes included with publicity materials for the film, Piddington makes disparaging references to Chapter 27, the yet-to-be-released studio production featuring Lindsay Lohan and Jared Leto. Noting the absence of a “false girlfriend in the final weekend [that] might allow us to cast two Hollywood stars,” Piddington asserts that his film contains “not a single conceit.” Problem is, film is pure conceit. The filmmaker’s manifestation of the events is purely representational—no archival footage of Chapman comes into the picture. But even if the movie fails the director’s daring goal, it retains a sensible exposition with immersive forward motion, and benefits from the skill behind the camera.
Chapman’s infamous obsession with The Catcher in the Rye arises as the chief haunting ingredient. Calling it “one of the most brilliant studies of adolescence,” Chapman decides that Holden Caulfield, J.D. Salinger’s icon of teen discontent, “doesn’t fit in anywhere, and I don’t.” Since Chapman intended to embody the character, The Killing of John Lennon might be the closest thing to the big screen realization of Holden Caulfield, considering Salinger’s continuing unwillingness to permit the production of an adaptation. At the very least, it’s a good place to start: Unlike Chapman, The Killing of John Lennon is no phony.
