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McDormand is an absolute force of nature as the grieving mom whose protests set off a twisting war of attrition with the local fuzz. “RAPED WHILE DYING” reads one, followed by “BUT STILL NO ARRESTS.” Finally the coup de grace, the one that really sets the gears in motion, “HOW COME, CHIEF WILLOUGHBY?” She decides to call them out, renting those titular billboards on the little-used stretch of road where her daughter was found dead.
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Eight months after the murder of Mildred Hayes’ ( Frances McDormand) daughter, the lazy police still have nothing to show meanwhile, Mildred’s grief (and own feelings of guilt) has curdled into rage. He’s no Saturday Evening Post sentimentalist, but damn if McDonagh hasn’t made a curmudgeonly optimistic portrait of small-town life. But for all the grim narrative tidings and sharp turns where acutely funny bouts of violence become acutely frightening, “Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri” is the story of jagged, messy people learning to co-exist, and maybe even grow. Of course, that’s compassion on McDonagh’s terms - the salty writer-director didn’t exactly become Norman Rockwell overnight. Which is to say that not only is “Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri” the director’s most accomplished film yet, it’s also his most compassionate. But here McDonagh has crafted the ultimate bait and switch, a film that carries its weary nihilism with a surprisingly light touch, an affectation later dropped in favor of an unexpected message of grace. “Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri” certainly feels in line with Martin McDonagh’s previous films, lathering on all the delightful profanity, corrosive one-liners, and acrid curveballs that spiked “In Bruges” and “Seven Psychopaths” with rakish charm.