Eius Paenitentiam
by Andrew Collins
The Drop (in theaters) is a dark look back into a world whose Godfather-esque heyday has passed yet continues to linger in New York City’s neighborhoods. Generations stack up upon each other and forge deep family ties. Cops and mobsters attend Mass every morning. Money changes hands unseen, according to a secret code that, when violated, is punishable by blood.
Occasionally this money, at the bidding of a gang of leather jacket-clad Chechens, ends up in a safe under the care of Bob (Tom Hardy), a meek bartender at joint called Cousin Marv’s.
It’s not often that we see films set in New York City that don’t show off its spectacle, but in The Drop we only see one or two shots of the skyline. The film lives in living rooms that haven’t changed since the 90s, in neighborhood bars where old friends commemorate a buddy’s death from ten years ago, in big box pet stores, and in greasy diners. The film shows us generally unremarkable characters in their homes, living out their lives oblivious to the immeasurable life and culture and beauty and opportunity surrounding them, who seem content with their own little niches.
In the role of Bob, Hardy displays his versatility in one of his most subdued roles to date. He walks a precipitous line between psychopath and humble neighborhood bartender. In this tension, we find the film’s center. Bob is so riddled with guilt from past illegal hustles that he goes to Mass every morning, but never takes communion. He wants nothing more than to achieve the American contentment of an honest day’s work, while allowing others to mind their own business. I find this admirable insofar as it makes him more likable than anyone else in the film, but sometimes the consequences of past sins fall on us even after we’ve tried to leave them behind.
Two elements capture the steady transformation of Bob’s character over the course of the film:
First, The Drop begins two days after Christmas. Winter has set in. The world is enduring dreary days that mirror Bob’s cold spirit. But spring is on its way, bringing with it the seeds of hope for new life.
Second, one night on his walk home from work, Bob finds a Rottweiler puppy abandoned in a trash can. Like him, the dog is a dangerous breed that seems hopelessly doomed to a life of violence. He finds it badly beaten and bleeding, yet he chooses to believe that the dog can be loved into a tame creature. The puppy offers Bob a purposeful way out of his numbed existence. For the first time, he assumes responsibility for another life. His early attempts to care for it are timid and awkward. He has no idea how to take care of a dog. But he learns. He gets better. He loves it and protects it, in the hope that companionship can grow out of the cold backwaters of the city.
Hardy’s excellent performance could only be overshadowed by James Gandolfini, who fittingly concluded his career by playing the “Cousin Marv” who gave the bar its name. A born and bred New Yorker, and self-styled mentor to Bob, Marv is nearing the end of his life on a downbeat, having lost ownership of his bar to Chechen mobsters. Desperate to recapture the glory days – back when he had a sense of power and authority and was respected – Marv launches a scheme to rob his own bar. The resulting trail of bodies, however, shows it was always an illusion. He never rolled with the real big dogs below the not-so-watchful radar of the law, and never could.
Bob does his darnedest to be a peacemaker, but to no avail. Marv’s action forces him to live by the gun. In the end, Bob acts dispassionately and decisively – and comes out the better for it – yet as he pulls away in his aged pickup truck, we hear his uneasy musings about judgment and the afterlife continuing, unsolved.
Neutrality, as much as we’d like it to make it an escape from life’s problems, cannot drive away old demons.
