The memory of Fargo lies thick as snow in the opening of The Calling, which finds Susan Sarandon playing Margie – sorry, Hazel... police chief of a sleepy town in Ontario.
It’s one of those folksy backwaters that don’t see many murders – until they do. Debut director Jason Stone’s drama seems ripe for character study, slow-burning tension and jet-black wit.
Alas, “slow-burn” is the only adjective that applies here. Lifting its cues from high-concept ’70s thrillers as well as the wintery blood-letting of Fargo and the corpse clues of Seven; The Calling has some intriguing ideas - and a stubborn determination not to flesh them out in any original way.
A torpid plot sees whiskey-guzzling Hazel examine the strange facial contortions of the serial killer’s victims – in the process unearthing a religious theme. Though the premise could, in theory, be laden with eerie tension, Stone has little grasp of momentum. The pace is plodding: the talented cast does not have a chance to shine. Playing a priest who explains the killer’s ritual motivations to Hazel, Donald Sutherland is reduced to an exposition-spouting narrative device. Ellen Burstyn is tiresome as Hazel’s irrelevant and nagging mother.
As the killer, Christopher Heyerdahl is revealed to us early on, removing any whiff of intrigue. Sarandon, to her credit, tries to bring a degree of nuance to her performance. However, Hazel’s ambivalence towards her job is never fully established in the writing – removing personal investment from her interactions with the murders.
Stone forgets the glossy surface isn’t what makes a thriller. It’s the layers of complexity and currents of tension beneath.