Red Right Hand
“If you’re gonna survive in these hills, you’ll have to get used to a little blood,” purrs Big Cat (Andie MacDowell), an Appalachian drug kingpin just before she has her goons feed a Sheriff’s deputy to her guard dogs. That’s the dime store pulp novel vibe of “Red Right Hand,” from first-time screenwriter Jonathan Easley and directors Ian and Eshom Nelms, exploring similar themes as their 2017 film “Small Town Crime”.
The Kentucky-set crime thriller stars Orlando Bloom as Cash, an ex-junkie whose burned red hand was the price he paid to leave Big Cat’s gang. He’s trying to lead a quiet life after the drug-induced death of his sister. He lives in a shack on her land and helps run her farm with his alcoholic brother-in-law Finney (Scott Haze) and his bookish niece Savannah (newcomer Chapel Oaks).
But, of course, in these kinds of stories no one ever gets to leave their past behind. When Big Cat sets her gang to terrorize his family after Finney fails to pay back $100k that he borrowed, Cash finds himself pulled back in. No amount of money can satisfy Big Cat, who is “into empire building.” Thus, Cash must use his unique skills — he’s a people person who can also kill indiscriminately — to help Big Cat secure her legacy. Various violent drug deals ensue. Knowing the precariousness of the deal, Cash and Finney also make sure Savannah knows how to use a gun.
While Bloom does his best to bring a hard edge to the tattoo-clad Cash, whose muscles bulge as he does pull-ups on the frame of his porch, there is always an air of make believe about his performance. You can see the acting, not the being. This wouldn’t necessarily be an issue if Bloom wasn’t aiming for realism, but rather leaned into the caricature of it all. There is a time and place for sincere brooding, but this kind of blood-soaked saga calls for something grander.
That’s where Garret Dillahunt, as a fellow ex-junkie and ex-gang member-turned preacher named Wilder, succeeds. Dillahunt goes broad, with big speeches and even bigger gestures. Only then can a sermon that pulls from John Milton’s Paradise Lost (and gives the film its title) play like the deranged biblical rantings of Preacher Harry Powell in “The Night of the Hunter,” the peak of Southern-fried pulp cinema.
MacDowell also reaches these rarified heights, giving her best performances in years. Reigning over her kingdom from a large red brick mansion, complete with a roaring fireplace, oak-paneled built-in bookcases, and leather armchairs, Big Cat is the kind of baddie who cuts the thumbs off of men who cross her with her own shears in one scene, then uses the hot bodies of her underlings for sexual pleasure in the next. And MacDowell savors every line. A southern broad herself, she knows the power of a whisper and a threat veiled in niceties. Arsenic runs in her veins.
