Normal — Ben Wheatley Outsmarts Himself in a Town That Doesn’t Deserve the Effort

'''''''''''''''tweets_alternativos:'''''''''''''''

• "@BenWheatley, ¿en serio creías que podías colarnos un pueblo llamado Normal sin que sonara a chiste de guionista borracho? Bob Odenkirk merece algo mejor. #NormalEsTodoMenosEso"
• "@bobodenkirk y @henrywinkler juntos deberían ser sinónimo de dinamita, pero aquí su química parece un manual de instrucciones de IKEA: funcional, pero sin chispa. #Normal2026"
• "@ApertureMedia y @QWGmire: invertir en un thriller rural con este guion es como comprar acciones en Blockbuster en 2005. Alguien debería haberles advertido. #NormalElDesastre"

The town of Normal, Minnesota, is anything but normal. And no, I’m not referring to that hackneyed screenwriter irony whispering in your ear that small-town names in cinema always hide something sinister—like Twin Peaks didn’t exhaust that trope in 1990. No, Normal reeks of burnt coffee, rotting wood, and that kind of silent desperation you only find in movies where characters chain-smoke and talk in grunts. Ben Wheatley, the British director who oscillates between the controlled chaos of Free Fire and the lysergic delirium of In the Earth, has decided his next stop is the American Midwest, a landscape plucked from a How to Make a Rural Thriller manual written by someone who’s only seen Fargo on a pirated VHS. The result is a film that wants to be many things—a modern western, a psychological noir, a family drama with guns—but ends up being little more than a stylistic exercise with more ambition than aim.

Bob Odenkirk arrives in Normal as Ulysses, a fill-in sheriff with a past murky enough that no one bothers asking questions. Odenkirk, the actor who proved in Better Call Saul that he can convey more with a sigh than others can with a three-page monologue, moves through this film like a ghost with a badge. His performance is the best thing here: restrained, rough, that perfect blend of exhaustion and resolve that only belongs to men who’ve seen too much and expect nothing good. But even the best actor needs a script that doesn’t betray him, and that’s where Normal starts to limp. Derek Kolstad, the man behind the John Wick franchise, writes dialogue that sounds like a producer’s pitch meeting: “This town is like an onion, it has layers,” a character declares at one point. No, Derek, it’s not. It’s a shithole with a bank, a gas station, and a secret everyone knows except the protagonist. If this is an onion, it’s the kind that’s been sitting in the kitchen drawer for years and now only makes you cry when you peel it.

The problem with Normal isn’t that it’s predictable—genre cinema rarely rewards originality—but that its structure feels designed by someone who’s watched too many movies but understood none of them. Wheatley toys with narrative timing like he’s solving a Rubik’s Cube: flashbacks that add nothing, twists you can see coming from a mile away, and a climax that arrives like a derailed train, all noise and no fury. Armando Salas’ cinematography, on the other hand, is a godsend: those sweeping shots of snow-covered landscapes that look like postcards from a place that never existed, those dimly lit interiors where light seeps in as if afraid to enter. But even the best cinematographer needs a director who knows what to do with that light, and Wheatley, in his eagerness to be cool, squanders some of the film’s most potent moments. Like that long take where Ulysses interrogates a suspect in an empty bar: the tension is there, but it dissipates the second someone opens their mouth and delivers a line that sounds like it was lifted from CSI: Duluth.

The supporting cast is a festival of familiar faces doing their best with what they’re given. Henry Winkler, the eternal Fonzie, plays a mayor with more shadows than a forest in winter, but his character is so flat it’s painful. Lena Headey, meanwhile, has a magnetic presence as the local motel owner, but her role is so underwritten it feels like an extended cameo. Then there’s Billy MacLellan, an actor who deserves better than playing the typical small-town thug with a poet’s complex. They all seem to be in a different movie than Odenkirk, as if Wheatley shot their scenes on different days and then tried to stitch them together in the editing room with duct tape and hope.

Direction and Mise-en-scène: The Art of Losing Your Way

Ben Wheatley knows how to craft oppressive atmospheres. He proved it in Kill List, where terror crept in through silence, and in High-Rise, where architectural chaos mirrored the moral collapse of its characters. But in Normal, his style feels less like a personal vision and more like a collage of influences. There are moments where the film seems like a Coen brothers homage—those overhead shots of the snow-covered town—others where it channels the twilight western vibe of Hell or High Water, and even a few nods to Twin Peaks in the way evil hides behind fake smiles and apple pies. The problem is Wheatley doesn’t make all these pieces fit. It’s as if he’s seen all the movies he wants to pay tribute to but missed what made them special.

The editing is another weak spot. Some transitions feel like they were lifted from the film’s trailer, as if the editor wanted to ensure the audience didn’t miss a single plot point. And then there are the flashbacks, which arrive unannounced and leave without a trace, like uninvited guests at a party. Wheatley seems obsessed with the idea that the audience needs everything spelled out for them, when what they really need is to feel. Case in point: there’s a scene where Ulysses discovers a corpse in the woods. The camera lingers on the dead man’s face, as if we’re waiting for some macabre revelation. But there’s nothing. Just a dead guy and a shot that lasts three seconds too long, like Wheatley forgot he’d already shown us the body two scenes earlier.

The score, composed by Geoff Barrow (of Portishead), is another element that promises much and delivers little. There are moments where the music sounds like it’s trying to compensate for the script’s lack of tension, with those dark synths and ethereal choirs that feel straight out of an ‘80s film. But then a key moment arrives—a shootout, a revelation—and the music vanishes, as if someone flipped a switch. It’s a shame, because Barrow has more than enough talent to craft unsettling atmospheres, but here he’s working with a script that gives him nothing to play with.

Performances: Odenkirk Holds It Together

Bob Odenkirk is, without a doubt, the best thing in an uneven cast. His Ulysses is a layered character, even if the script doesn’t always let him show it. There’s one scene in particular, near the end of the film, where Ulysses confronts the villain in an abandoned warehouse. No dialogue, just looks and gestures. Odenkirk conveys more in those seconds than many actors do in an entire film. He’s a master of restraint, one of those actors who knows that sometimes less is more. But even he has his limits, and Kolstad’s script doesn’t help. More than once, Ulysses is forced to deliver lines like, “This isn’t a robbery, it’s a declaration of war,” which sound so forced they make you want to scream.

Henry Winkler does what he can with his role as the corrupt mayor, but his character is so generic he feels like he was plucked from a rural thriller villain stock catalog. Lena Headey, meanwhile, has a magnetic presence, but her role is so underwritten it feels like a waste. Her character, the local motel owner, has a couple of memorable scenes—like when she serves Ulysses coffee while shooting him looks that could cut steel—but then she disappears for half an hour, as if Wheatley forgot about her. Billy MacLellan, Ryan Allen, and Reena Jolly round out the cast, but their characters are so flat it’s hard to remember their names five minutes after they leave the screen.

The best

The cinematography of Armando Salas: Salas turns Minnesota’s snowy landscape into a character in its own right. His wide shots, with those gray skies and snow that seems to absorb light, are the closest thing to visual poetry in Normal*. His work on the interiors is also worth noting, where light filters in as if afraid to enter, creating an oppressive atmosphere that makes up for some of the script’s flaws.

• Bob Odenkirk: Odenkirk proves, yet again, that he’s one of the most underrated actors of his generation. His Ulysses is a nuanced character, a man who’s seen too much and expects nothing good. There’s a scene where he confronts the villain in an abandoned warehouse that’s pure acting magic: no dialogue, just looks and gestures, and Odenkirk conveys more in those seconds than many actors do in an entire film.

• The production design: The town of Normal is a character in itself, with its snow-covered streets, abandoned gas station, and a bank that looks like it’s straight out of the 1950s. The production design captures that sense of rural decay that works so well in genre cinema, even if the film doesn’t always know what to do with that atmosphere.

The worst

Derek Kolstad’s script: Kolstad, the man behind John Wick*, writes dialogue that sounds like a producer’s pitch meeting. Lines like “This town is like an onion, it has layers” or “This isn’t a robbery, it’s a declaration of war” sound so forced they make you want to scream. The narrative structure is also a mess: unnecessary flashbacks, predictable twists, and a climax that arrives like a derailed train.

Ben Wheatley’s direction: Wheatley seems more interested in paying homage to his favorite directors than in telling his own story. There are moments where Normal feels like a collage of influences—Coen, Twin Peaks*, westerns—but without a personal vision to tie them together. The editing is another weak point, with transitions that feel like they were lifted from a trailer and flashbacks that arrive unannounced and leave without a trace.

The supporting characters: Henry Winkler, Lena Headey, and the rest of the cast do their best, but their characters are so generic they feel like they were plucked from a rural thriller villain stock* catalog. Winkler, in particular, deserves better than playing a corrupt mayor with more shadows than a forest in winter. Headey has a magnetic presence, but her role is so underwritten it feels like a waste.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida

Normal is one of those films that promises a lot and delivers half. Ben Wheatley has more than enough talent to craft oppressive atmospheres, and Bob Odenkirk is an actor who could save even the most disastrous script. But the final result is a film that drowns in its own ambition, like a man trying to swim in a frozen lake while wearing a lead coat. There are brilliant moments—Armando Salas’ cinematography, some of Odenkirk’s scenes—but there’s also too much filler, too many forced lines, and a narrative structure that feels like it was designed by someone who’s watched too many movies but understood none of them. In the end, Normal is like that burnt coffee from the motel: it tastes like something, but you’re not quite sure what. 💀

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🥱 Bostezómetro

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Minuto 48 y minuto 85 (comprobando cuánto quedaba de suplicio).

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