Had I seen Michael Keaton's extraordinary turn in The Whisper Man before publishing the post above, there's no question he would have been one of the four actors I enshrined on iteration #72 in my most enduring series. Keaton's work in this recently released Netflix film is the personification of a well-known actor playing against type.
Given its creepy premise, The Whisper Man is not for everyone. Robert DeNiro is predictably excellent playing a haunted retired police detective. And both Adam Scott - as DeNiro's estranged son - and Michelle Monaghan, playing a detective investigating a series of brutal crimes, hold their own alongside the master. But Keaton's three scenes - the first with DeNiro and Monaghan, then one with DeNiro alone, and the last, an indescribably perverse scene near the end of the film - feature him at the peak of his craft. I would willingly watch this disturbing movie a second time just to re-experience Keaton's artistry. The closest recent analogues I've had have been after finishing Daniel Woodrell's The Death of Sweet Mister (2001) early this month and re-listening - for perhaps the 1000th time - to If I Fell while preparing to teach a class on the Beatles in August. In these majestic moments, my life is immeasurably enriched. When have you most recently been transported by great art, no matter the medium?
Although I suspect I'll be disappointed, I'm still hoping Keaton gets a best supporting actor nod when next year's Oscars are announced. If you watch The Whisper Man, I'm curious to hear your reaction.
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