Forrest, for his part, plunges his hands into the pockets of a long gray cardigan which he accessorizes with a hat pulled low, a cigar jammed into his mouth and brass knuckle-dusters. With these he reconfigures the face of anyone who crosses him, and Hillcoat is not someone to leave such deeds to our imagination. Tom Hardy rounds off his portrait of Forrest with an extraordinary bass grunt, meant to indicate satisfaction, scorn and pretty much everything in between; he sounds like Lee Marvin waking up in a pigsty. Even when a naked redhead glides into his room, after dark, and stands at the foot of the bed, all he can manage is the same noise, which she interprets, for some reason, as a prelude to intercourse rather than a request for Alka-Selzer - the hot new product of that year, which shows that Prohibition was a bust. “You’re just goin’ to watch me forever?”, she asks. It’s an idea.
- from a (mixed) review of Lawless in The New Yorker.
(Source: newyorker.com)
