QUARRY: An Excellently Written, Tense and Violent Thriller

American intervention in Vietnam is a theme repeatedly exploited by American cinema, and today it no longer seems very attractive, so in the twenty-first century films about the Vietnam War are rare. All the more so because citizens of the United States—unable to live without war—became the protagonists of a new conflict: the campaign in Iraq (and many others), which Kathryn Bigelow portrayed in The Hurt Locker. Cinemax, attempting to compete in a very tough market back in 2016, decided to return to the 1970s—to an America consumed by the Vietnam fever. Seeking a charismatic figure who could captivate viewers for multiple seasons, it turned to Max Allan Collins’s series of novels.

Quarry.

We meet Sergeant Mac Conway—a veteran who served two tours in Vietnam. Remarkable—he left a beautiful wife at home only to return to hell, while unleashing hell upon others. During his second tour in Indochina, the massacre at Quan Thang took place. Exactly what happened there, we learn in the final, eighth episode, which runs eighty minutes—longer than the others. It is known only that he is haunted for this reason: even at the airport, a group of demonstrators waits to confront him for his participation in the massacre.

Was he to blame? Was he merely an observer or a tool in the hands of his commanders? That is the fundamental question that keeps viewers in suspense until the end of the season.

Before the creators reveal the answer, they portray the fate of a man lost in an urban jungle, which turns out to be an extension of the Vietnamese jungle for him.

A good husband and friend, someone capable of building a backyard swimming pool, has become a wreck of a man. Tormented by nightmares, he seeks oblivion at work, but the only decent gig he lands is contract killing. And that only draws him deeper into the horrors of war. His relationship with his wife gradually deteriorates, though it is clear that she is forgiving. Despite his mental struggles, despite loud arguments, and even despite serious “escapades,” she does not abandon her husband to his fate.

What strikes the eye at first glance is the superbly recreated atmosphere of the 1970s.

Old American cars, vinyl records, references to the violent, sex-and-drugs–dripping cinema of that era—they transform this series into a nostalgic journey to a time that will never return. From Mac Conway’s story emerges a deeply moving drama of a soldier who returned from war utterly destroyed. But this is not immediately obvious. A telling scene is when his wife appeals to a government office for help for her husband—the official notes that, since the man has both hands and both legs, his situation cannot be the worst; others are more deserving of assistance.

The crime subplot is interesting, though seemingly banal—it holds tension better than the veterans’ psychological issues.

From the beginning, there is a mystery in this gangster narrative, something that refuses to remain at peace. A man identifying himself as Broker cannot be just an intermediary between clients and hitmen; contract killing cannot be the whole story—if that were the case, it would be disappointing indeed. The matter is far deeper, and the swamp Mac Conway has stepped into is profound. His journey to rock bottom will be long—and at least I hope it does not end after the first or second season. He is a charismatic character with considerable potential, played by an actor who truly inhabits a scarred psyche.

The cast has no top-tier Hollywood stars, yet the writers and directors receive solid support from the acting ensemble. To me—someone unfamiliar with contemporary cinema—Logan Marshall-Green was an entirely new face. The same goes for the lovely Jodi Balfour. Scenes with these two are outstanding—believable, searing, and full of emotion. Certainly, we will hear much more good about them in the future. It is obvious they are fully committed to this project, not shying away from performing difficult, courageous scenes. Broker, played by Peter Mullan, an outstanding Scottish actor who won at Cannes for Ken Loach’s My Name Is Joe (1998), adds plenty of suspense to the plot.

Memphis is a city of music—Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash began their careers there; rock and roll was born there at Sun Records, founded by producer Sam Phillips.

So when writer-duo Michael Fuller & Graham Gordy and director Greg Yaitanes prepared a series set in 1970s Memphis, they had to find a place for old vinyl. The title of the first episode is already a song title, and between scenes meant to inject edge and tension, diverse tracks play to soothe the ears. Rock and soul in various forms (Wilson Pickett, Harry Nilsson, Otis Redding, Al Green), classic guitar blues (one episode is titled Coffee Blues, featuring Chris Thomas King), the South’s characteristic gospel (The Spirit of Memphis), and genre-pleasing country (my favorite—closing one episode is Why Don’t You Haul Off And Love Me? by Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner).

But not only music was remembered, not only the suspenseful action, investigations, drugs, and the war’s destructive impact on the psyche. They also recalled what in the 1970s sparked the greatest resistance. Backward, xenophobic, and deeply attached to tradition, Southerners did not accept change—and at that time the most important change was the end of racial segregation. Outraged fathers would not allow their children to attend the same school as members of another race. To them, those children were apes, not human beings. Perhaps those bigots should have gone to war to see that Black and white soldiers fighting side by side are no different—they bleed the same and they die the same.

Mac Conway knows something about that because in Vietnam there was no segregation, which is why, despite his shattered psyche, he will not become a racist.

The eight episodes of the first series may not hit as hard as a powerful dose of narcotics, but they are incomparably healthier, more beneficial, and stimulating. Visually, the show oscillates between the rawness of the 1970s and modern techniques. Steadicam shots, underwater and voyeuristic scenes, and above all the crucial massacre in a Vietnamese village shot in one master shot—no cuts from the first to the last shot, as if watching a war live through a reporter’s eyes… It is impressive, because it is clear the creators devoted attention to every detail so that everything would work flawlessly—so that the ambitious content would be meticulously framed.

To temper this praise, there is one area where, in my opinion, the creators should have applied themselves more carefully. I mean the dialogue—which at times is glaringly mediocre—lines and rhetorical questions such as, Do I look like a cop?, Do I look like a Catholic?, Do I look upset? Also, the scenes between Buddy and his mother exemplify wasted screen time. In an eight-hour season, this is only a drop in the bucket; it does not significantly detract from the whole and does not diminish the series’ value.

Just as a swim in a pool relaxes, this production is addictive, prompting introspection and reflection. I did not use the pool metaphor by accident—water is an important motif here, and the final episode is titled A Drop Drills the Stone, referring to one of the characters.