THE KILLING OF JOHN LENNON

by
Richard O'Donnell


KRISHA FAIRCHILD, ROBERT KIRK, GUNTHER STERN, JONAS BALL
DIRECTED BY
ANDREW PIDDINGTON

The Killing of John Lennon. This was hard to watch for about a second or two. I’m a big fan of John Lennon ( I remember John Lennon) and I even lived behind the castle Dakota, in The Park West, 73nd and Central Park West for 8 years. I met the legend and his Ono weeks before the killing. Like most people, I walked into his world, not the other way around. But this astounding film by Andrew Peddington set my mind at ease early on. It told me that this picture wasn’t going to be a slasher-stinky-beer-stained-carpet-in-the-trailer kinda romp, but a film that answers, for all of us… why? Why would you kill John Lennon? What the f#@k for? Are you that bored, that slam-dunk stupid, that whack-o that you pick on an immortal rock star? Mr. Beatles himself. Give peace a chance? Imagine? I’m-naked-in-the-bed with my sweetie, and the press don’t get it… That guy? Doesn’t make any sense, never has, never will. But. But. The “why” has finally and uniquely been answered. Am I gushing?

Yeah–well–you bet. Just like I did with Silence of the Lambs–that film carved itself into the skull of American pop culture while giving us Sir Tony, Ms. Jody, and Ted “it-puts-the-lotion-in-the-basket” Levine. Demme took us all hostage, forcing us into tight, really dark, dank places we’ve never seen or been to before. The Killing of John Lennon dropped me right there too, right inside Chapman’s inner sanctum. They used his diaries and court transcripts to piece it all together’s why. Glued the shattered egg that fell from hell, and landed on the upper West side to boil the bloody yoke of hate and disapproval. And because of the true-to-life leisurely pacing, the tension clings to you, like Hitchcock’s show the audience the ticking bomb theory: there it is, under the seat and ticking away. Only the audience knows it’s there. What do you do? You squirm. And squirm some more. That’s the experience. Squirming through a real live horror show. You know it’s true. We all know what happens. In this, everyone did their jobs: everybody! This is ensemble front and back, folks, and virtually flawless. It doesn’t begin or end like you think it would. It takes you right where you want to go. (Even though you’ll most likely have second thoughts once you get there.) Especially after hanging out with the ultimate loser, sitting on a dirty sofa while a sweaty Chapman tells you what he’s going to do–everything is credible.

The secondary cast is so casual, so fine-tuned that you keep forgetting it’s only celluloid. You’re casually walking “inside-the-mind-of” an infamous assassin, as if you’re actually hanging out with him. About to ask him why, man, why’d you do it? Which makes it extra disturbing when you’re standing right alongside him as he bags the elephant: a celebrity so big, so pop-f@#king right-on, that the whole world gasps. Insane. Yes he was. In my mind I think he was skipping tra-la through the rat-infested alleys of his mind. Poor schmoe though. A real nobody, a truly wounded animal, a coward needing our forgiveness, according to Yoko (which is why I always dug her the most). This all comes across in fine detail here. And one scene near the conclusion of the film, totally unexpected, and all Exorcist, had me tossing in my bed long after I pushed the eject button.