James Franco continues his efforts of adapting classic literature into films, first with William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and now Cormac McCarthy’s Child of God. This is not a surprising choice considering Franco has a PhD in English literature and seems to get a kick out of adapting “unfilmable” novels. Those familiar with McCarthy’s unapologetic story know what they’re getting into. But for others this graphic tale about a necrophile cave dweller who descends further and further into madness will be an eye-opener.

Child of God sets the cruel tone from the beginning when a belligerent outsider named Lester Ballard (Scott Haze) wails obscenities towards potential land buyers at an auction, claiming the land belongs to his family. The camera ferociously moves to catch up with the slouching outcast, imitating the blaring commotion caused by Lester. His speech is barely comprehensible, not because of a thick Tennessee accent, but because of his primal-like vocabulary and delivery.

At the heart of this disturbing story is Lester’s severe isolation and sexual perversity. With his property now gone, Lester wanders off into the deep-South wilderness, becoming more unhinged with each step he takes from society. His cruel crimes escalate from being accused of rape, to necrophilia, to eventually becoming a serial killer.

Child of God is an exhausting watch for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, the perverse themes and graphic imagery are not exactly easy to digest. No pun intended, but in one scene the main character takes a shit and wipes his ass with a stick, leaving nothing to the imagination. In another he masturbates outside of a vehicle while watching a couple having sex in it. Another reason the film will test your patience is that too often scenes have Lester screaming on a hill or struggling to move a lifeless body, occupying the screen for way longer than needed. There are probably more grunts and screams in the film than real words. Yes, that might fit the bill for a character who is more animal-like than human, but it doesn’t make it any less tiresome.

Without question the best part of the film is Scott Haze’s unflinching performance. His dedication to the role is on display in every frame. It’s safe to say that any role that requires on-camera defecation in the forest and having intercourse with a dead woman is a challenge. Haze tackles the brutal assignment with relative ease, earning the right for his name to appear on upcoming “Actors to Watch” lists.

Just like McCarthy’s novel, the film is structured into three segments, each shown on title cards along with excerpts from the book. Unfortunately, these choppy poetic proses–though beautifully written–don’t have the same impact when extracted and displayed onscreen. Another failed stylistic choice by Franco were the repeated fade-to-black transitions between scenes. They constantly serve as a reminder of how not to end a chapter in film.

All in all, the graphic themes and imagery found in Child of God are better left on paper than captured on camera. One must credit Franco’s ambitions to adapt these hard-to-film pieces of literature, though Child of God proves that literal adaptations are not his strongest suit. Instead of straight interpretations perhaps Franco should use his creative talent to re-imagine concepts or conceive new ones. I have little doubt that Franco is a talented filmmaker, I just wish he’d keep classic literature on his bookshelf.

The endeavor of dramatizing the events of something as horrific as the 2002 Washington D.C. killing spree of “The Beltway Snipers”, John Allen Muhammed and his then 17-year-old partner, Lee Malvo, requires a deft hand and a measure of control and restraint typically demonstrated only by the most seasoned of filmmakers, especially if you’re going to examine the infamous killers as intimately as writer-director Alexandre Moors does in his debut feature, Blue Caprice. However, Moors rises to the occasion and navigates the minefield skillfully, shedding light on the twisted psyches of Muhammed and Malvo for clarity’s sake rather than focusing their chilling, monstrous acts, which are handled concisely only near the film’s conclusion. Despite Moors successfully avoiding making any statements that are overtly exploitative or shockingly gruesome, one might wish he’d exercised more assertiveness, as the message of the movie ultimately feels frustratingly elusive and hollow.

We open on the Caribbean island Antigua, bathed in an eerie, murky blue light. The film is shot beautifully; Moors and DP Brian O’Carroll’s use of soft-focus is abundant, giving the film a simultaneously dreamlike and sobering aesthetic, often placing the camera in unexpected spots, slightly to the left or right of where you’d expect it to be. Lee (Tequan Richmond) is abandoned by his mother, the only family he’s got. While aimlessly, dejectedly roaming the island for lack of anything better to do, Lee spots Muhammed (Isaiah Washington), a sharply-dressed American, goofing around on the beach with three children who appear to be his own. He’s genuinely great with the kids, and any malevolence seen in Washington at this point is projected by us, only informed by our knowledge of the film’s gruesome final destination. Muhammed eventually takes Lee under his wing, and in a quietly revealing scene with his children, we learn that he’s brought them to Antigua to escape a losing custody battle (the first true sign of malevolence).

When his children are eventually taken away, Muhammed takes Lee with him back to the U.S. to Tacoma, Washington, where he passes the young boy off as his son and they drift through the evergreen city. Muhammed mooches his way into the home of an ex-fling first, then (after being kicked out due to Muhammed’s general asshole behavior) crashes with an old buddy, Ray (Tim Blake Nelson), and Ray’s wife (Joey Lauren Adams). Ray is a wiseass with an artillery obsession, which introduces the instruments of death into the hands of Lee, who turns out to be an excellent marksman.

Throughout the lengthy middle section of the film, we see Muhammed mold young Lee into a cold killer through twisted, disturbing methods. He ties the young boy to a tree in the rain, forcing him to free himself and walk back to Ray’s. The two violently spar in the forest, sprint through the trees, and hone their shooting skills together, all serving to make Lee more malleable in Muhammed’s hands. The older man eventually convinces the boy to murder people in cold blood in order to demonstrate his love. “It’s not enough to say it,” Muhammed preaches.

Washington’s sinister performance is deliberate and controlled. He speaks economically, without a wasted word, and he’ll rattle your bones with every word of maniacal, anarchistic vitriol he spews into the open ears of Richmond, who puts on an equally impressive effort. The young actor’s role is essentially silent, and he mostly utilizes his body language and expressive eyes to convey the emotions he needs to. The actors work incredibly well in tandem, and every moment they share is more chilling than the last.

With Lee, Muhammed constantly reinforces a philosophy of “us against them”, claiming that “they” took his children away, and that he and the boy need to wage a two-man war on civilization itself and watch the world crumble. They’re alone together, both rejected by their loved ones and driven to madness. Moors’ intent is to illuminate the relationship between the killers, nothing more; there isn’t an iota of sympathy for them to be found in the film, which is wise. Washington and Richmond are appropriately monstrous, and the film plays like a subdued horror movie in many ways, and an absolutely terrifying one at that.

Despite the length and plodding pace of the Tacoma section of the film, in which we watch Muhammed calculatedly indoctrinate Malvo, the boy’s transformation from innocent island orphan to mindless murderer feels surprisingly befuddling and abrupt. It’s more of a senseless jump from child to monster than a clearly plotted evolution. The writing, while otherwise excellent, fumbles in this respect, lacking precision. Richmond is great, though, and holds up his end of the bargain.

The film’s final act—which presents the Washington D.C. killing spree itself—feels tacked-on and unnecessary. The film’s opening montage (comprised of real-life news clips of the shootings) is evidence enough of the cataclysmic results of Muhammed’s rage, and Moors’ focus is clearly aimed at the relationship formed between the two killers, not the killings themselves, so the reenactment of the massacre feels like an afterthought. Moors exercises taste by not sensationalizing the violence or playing it for shock value, but refraining from showing the murders entirely would have been much, much more tasteful.

At the very least, you must credit James Franco for even attempting to film what some consider to be a near impossible story to tell. William Faulkner’s classic 1930 novel, As I Lay Dying, features 15 different characters, each telling a part of the story in their point of view. Director James Franco does a marvelous job of recreating this by showing many parts of the film with a split screen that often shows one character speaking on one side and the reaction of the other character on the other side. Franco can now mark another tally under his growing collection of experimental films.

The overall plot of As I Lay Dying is a fairly simple one; a family travels on a journey to the town of Jefferson in order to fulfill the requests of recently deceased family member named Addie Bundren. The real story lies within all the details and burdens each character brings to the table. But the details are rather long-winded, which makes following what exactly is going on a bit challenging.

The biggest obstacle comes on the first day of their long-haul. The group must cross a river with their wagon that is carrying the coffin without the use of a bridge due to massive flooding. Their only option is to try crossing with the aid of an improvised ford, but it does end smoothly. One of the traveler’s leg gets badly injured during this mishap and requires some serious medical attention. I will spare some of the gruesome details that ensue when they attempt to treat the wound themselves.

I must confess that I did not read the novel before seeing the film and I think it was a real challenge because of that fact. There are indeed many films that you can get by just fine without having read the literature beforehand, however, I do not believe As I Lay Dying fits into that category. Not helping matters is a character named Anse (Tim Blake Nelson) who would give Bane (of The Dark Knight Rises) a run for his money at being more incomprehensible. The combination of his rotting teeth and extreme Southern drawl made it difficult to understand more than every tenth word he spoke. Even though As I Lay Dying is an English speaking film, the French speaking audience members at this screening likely better understood what was being said because they at least had subtitles to read.

James Franco came on stage to introduce the film at its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival and bluntly said, “This is a weird film.” Indeed it was. For better or worse, As I Lay Dying certainly felt like a literal interpretation of the novel, but as I mentioned before I have not read the book, therefore I cannot say that with absolute certainty. The acting in the film was very strong but the obvious standout is the film’s poetic and Malick like cinematography. Whether or not the film works may very well come down to one simple question, did you read the book beforehand?