The smaller moments in Greg McLean’s Wolf Creek inspire liberation from the conventions of grotesque cinema: a slight, giggly yet sincere wedding of the lips; the occasional jealous-driven tantrums; all the friendly bickering, among countless, all-treasured others.
In close to an hour, our three backpackers — displaced in McLean’s at once familiar and otherworldly setting — have become real people that we feel we already know, and put onto our full sympathy. They’re less pawns to McLean, until his grueling third act in which they seem to devolve into mere bodies to pile up, circling back into question McLean’s well-intentions.
Ultimately, no one can blame anyone, or at least no one needs to. Wolf Creek has one of the most discerning villains in genre cinema, a sadistic outbacker hillbill Mick Taylor (John Jarratt) who, least to say, is a no-bullshit sicko! The type that will shatter whatever high expectations foreigners have for the beautiful Australian Outback. He is terrifying that under his torture you can only tremble, and always — I just mean, always — forget that vehicles in fact need keys to start.
I am pressing emphasis on the fact that it is indeed sarcasm that you hear, in case you feel uncertain.
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Finally, in McLean’s expressionist, beautifully lensed latter-bookend, we see Taylor walking directly towards another day: the ultimately unjustified successor in which the killer is doomed to devolving into a sick, maniacal joke.
It is a new day indeed for the town’s terror, but will he still know what is a knife and what is not?
