Rating: NR | Runtime: 119 minutes
Release Date: April 4th, 2025 (USA)
Studio: Magnolia Pictures
Director(s): Michael Shannon
Writer(s): Brett Neveu / Brett Neveu (play)
I don’t want love.
Adapted by Brett Neveu from his own stage play—which debuted in 2002 at the A Red Orchid Theatre, of which he is an ensemble member and Michael Shannon a co-founder—the latter’s directorial debut Eric LaRue proves to be a very off-putting film. I don’t say that because of the subject matter, though. I’d use “difficult” to describe its narrative centered upon the complex aftermath of a school shooting. No, I call Neveu’s story “off-putting” because it fully leans into the awkwardness of tragedy. We laugh when we’re uncomfortable and every single character on-screen epitomizes this fact. I applaud the attempt to breathe life into this phenomenon, but I can’t say it does the topic justice.
That’s not to say it doesn’t work in certain aspects, though. I absolutely love the commentary on religion and how a church—no matter how well meaning its pastors might believe themselves to be—exploits these sorts of horrors to close ranks, recruit parishioners, and solidify its authority on “healing.” First there are the Presbyterians and Steve Calhan (Paul Sparks) desperately trying to be the savior Janice LaRue (Judy Greer) needs to move forward with what her son did (murdering three classmates in cold blood before returning home like nothing happened). Then there are the Redeemers and Bill Verne (Tracy Letts, whose “Bug” also premiered at Red Orchid) evangelizing grief in a way that strips Ron LaRue (Alexander Skarsgård) of agency as a means of relief.
After having recently attended a family’s member’s funeral wherein the denial born from a spiritual lobotomy was in full effect, the theatricality of the Redeemers service on-screen and the obvious trauma Laura (Jennifer Engstrom) is working through as one of the mothers whose son was murdered is spot-on. I’m not here to say what they’re doing is unhealthy since whatever gets you through the pain to approach understanding is valid, but Neveu and Shannon pull no punches in their depiction of Ron’s gradual indoctrination. He embraces the idea that Jesus will carry his burden. He yearns for such a simple and quick solution to the feelings his awkward introvert feels. They show how invasive this route is and how aggressive he becomes in trying to erase his suffering.
Janice rejects that. She needs to keep feeling it because she can’t shake the mix of guilt and confusion roiling within. It’s why she looks past Calhan’s overt enthusiasm to attempt the dialogue he promises he can facilitate with the other victims’ mothers in his congregation (Annie Parisse’s Stephanie and Kate Arrington’s Jill). Janice doesn’t want to forget. She wants to understand. And she hopes sitting with them might move her in that direction despite the very real chance that they both blame her for what happened. It doesn’t matter that she and Ron didn’t supply the guns or that they didn’t peddle militia rhetoric. They raised a murderer and should be punished right along with him. It’s the sort of complexity that Fran Kranz’s Mass and Grayson Moore and Aidan Shipley’s Cardinals handle so well.
The thing about Eric LaRue is that it doesn’t mine these complexities to search for answers or empathy. No, it seems more interested in stoking the hate instead. It craves provocation. Ron and Janice pulling further apart as their journeys towards healing diverge with animosity and apathy towards each other. Janice seeking causes for an unjustifiable effect that pushes the other mothers to start questioning her culpability more. Even the final scene pitting Janice against her son Eric (Nation Sage Henrikson) in prison—her first time visiting him—proves combative against the audience. It presents Eric with neurodivergent tendencies as though it could be construed as an excuse before ultimately having his admission of remorse rebuked by a mother demanding purpose.
I think this type of controversial incitement is probably what made the play an attractive piece to produce, but I don’t believe it’s constructive. It focuses on the nihilistic aspect of the whole and our eagerness to choose avoidance rather than education. Because it is easier to believe your son’s heinous crime was committed out of necessity rather than whim. It is easier to believe your dead son got to smile by Jesus’s side in Heaven early rather than think he left this world too soon. It is easier to hate the parents of the actual criminal rather than acknowledge they’ve lost their son too. Yes, he’s still alive. But he’s not there. In many respects he’s no longer human (in a moral or legal sense). It’s not about forgiveness. It’s about finding a sense of clarity.
By deciding to highlight mankind’s worst aspects, Neveu and Shannon undercut the drama. It’s an intentional choice—the undercurrent of cringe humor proves as much—so, kudos to them for executing it well, but it’s hardly worthwhile insofar as saying anything of true merit. And that’s why it’s so off-putting. Greer, Skarsgård (who is channeling Shannon himself here), Parisse, and Arrington are absolutely fantastic, but it’s tough to simply watch them all become some form of monster (except Arrington since Jill is the one piece with a hope for nuance) in response to Eric’s monstrousness. The narrative complexity becomes a superficial coating atop the moral complexity, exploiting it to trigger emotions that inevitably aggravate more than instruct.
jaredmobarak.com 
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