The Movies I Hate: Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

It's a reversal of fortune for Martin McDonagh's Oscar-winning crime drama.

March 27, 2025

In today’s “The Movies I Hate,” we revisit Martin McDonagh’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, a critically acclaimed awards-season darling. Despite losing the big prize at the 90th Academy Awards, it took home Best Actress for Frances McDormand and Best Supporting Actor for Sam Rockwell. Dismissing misgivings, having disliked the film’sgenre-blending and strained narrative, I gave Three Billboards a second watch. Will the results be the same, or will it remain a “movie I hate?”

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Original Conclusion: Though brilliantly acted, Martin McDonagh’s contemplative crime drama is too languidly-paced and fond of its darkly comic undertones to make the desired impact.

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Original Canty Score: 49

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It’s interesting how time changes our perceptions. It’s likely a question for the philosophers: why our thoughts change or don’t. We usually claim that some seismic shift in philosophy developed us into full-bodied, empathetic beings. In other words, we got over ourselves and stopped being pretentious little shits.

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Amazingly, this is what happened to me, and in a relatively short amount of time. Aging makes it hard to appreciate the changes we undergo. From 10 to 16, we stop looking like deranged humanoid gophers and more like someone a pervy record producer puts in a mini skirt and makes dance like an idiot down a hallway. Our voices deepen, our bodies get hairier, and instead of complaining about not having ice cream or going to sleep early, we complain about literally everything else.

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But as life grabs one by whatever sensitive body part one possesses, it’s harder to gauge change. We always feel young; our faces become so familiar to us that we always believe we still look 21, and if we fish for that compliment, we agonize as we see people's faces contort as the internal dilemma grabs hold: “Do I lie and say they look young or clue them in that father time has told them to go fuck themselves?”

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The way to see how much you’ve changed is to reflect and compare. They say comparison is the thief of joy, but I’veelected not to care about that and be utterly miserable for the next 20 minutes it takes to write this article. Then I’ll drink a cup of cocoa and try to understand why Gunsmoke stayed on the air for so long.

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At 21, I watched Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, and I didn’t get it. Not the plot so much; I understood that. Girl dies, mom sad, lots of fire. It was the acclaim I didn’t understand. Martin McDonagh struck gold with his debut film, In Bruges, about a former Nazi concentration camp commandant who hated phones. Sadly, his follow-up, Seven Psychopaths, was disappointing.

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By the time Three Billboards came out, there was indifference, and after seeing him so ardently attempt to blend small-town crime drama, dark comedy, and subtle social commentary, that indifference had morphed into irritation. Youth is wasted on the young, and it’s the typical young man’s philosophy to take everything as an emotionless exercise, scoring on an unforgiving rubric. I wouldn’t say my criticism was that obtuse, but it lacked a deeper emotional perspective.

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Of course, 29 is not old, but staring down 30 has inspired the reflection that makes Three Billboards a more invigorating viewing experience. I’ve experienced a lot in the last 8 years, learned a lot about myself, people, and the world at large, and come to appreciate the humanity in everyone except people I dislike, whose humanity is debatable for the sake of my narrow worldview.

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While projection is contemptible, it’s inevitable, so don’t watch this movie until you’re old enough, whatever age. We feel at every age, but there’s a desperation to impress significance onto our feelings when we’re younger that makes many experiences oddly insignificant. Wait for when that’s washed away, then watch this movie. If you do, you’ll be amazed.

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In the fictional small town of Ebbing Missouri, Mildred Hays is struggling in the year-long aftermath of her daughter Angela’s rape and murder. Angered by a lack of developments in the case and the police department’s seeming concession, she rents three billboards along the country road leading into town:

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“Raped While Dying.”

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“And Still No Arrests?”

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“How Come, Chief Willoughby?”

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So begins a story of a woman defiant in her grief, standing firm against a town unwilling to hear her plea for justice, one that resonates for many reasons, many of which are purely cinematic.

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Do you enjoy screenplays that effectively traverse the tricky terrain of genre-blending? If so, McDonagh’s writing is for you. Not only does he create truly biting conversations, giving credit and lending credence to people usually portrayed cheaply, but he paces his movie through the dialogue, a rare feat.

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In a moment of simmering rage, Mildred returns home from the local bar to find her son, Robbie, sitting in her dining room with Father Montgomery, the town priest. He’s come to inform her of the townfolk’s fury over her billboards, proclaiming that everyone supports her regarding Angela, but no one supports the billboards. Chief Willoughby is a good man, and the people won’t stand for it.

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Cutting through the condescension, Mildred likens Montgomery to a Blood or Crip, subject to new laws that claim that by simply joining the gang, you are culpable in any crime a gang member commits, regardless of whether you committed the act. As a priest, Montgomery joined a sort of gang, one that, in the words of Josh Singer and Tom McCarthy, turned child sex abuse into a cottage industry. He may not have heard or seen anything, but by knowing it was happening and joining the gang, he’s culpable, and no man culpable of such things can lecture her.

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In just a few minutes, we’ve lived a lifetime with Mildred. We know who she is, that she’s immovable in repairing what's broken, and has an answer for anyone who questions her resolve. It happens quickly but effectively, and what most movies would take an hour to establish Three Billboards makes clear with haste.

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Do you appreciate atypical scores that don’t conform to the norms of their genre but still manage to effortlessly capture the cultural essence and emotional cues of their setting and story? Well, Carter Burwell’s music is for you. He mixes instruments that shouldn’t go together, genres that don’t make sense, and transitions from the gentleness of soft indie to the emphatic energy of what has been hilariously dubbed “Stomp clap hey.”

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It all seems paradoxical, but genius comes from accomplishment, not effort. Burwell’s score is, thus, art in the truest sense of the word, effectively supporting McDonagh as he weaves between genres as Mildred’s story takes shape in ways sometimes as humorous as tragic, helping us settle into and feel fully immersed in every moment.

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Are you drawn to magnetic performances that embody the idea of disappearing into a character, humanizing them so that gray morality feels tangible instead of something we must legitimize on the film’s behalf?

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Outside of Mildred, Chief Willoughby, despite the ceaseless wit that one could argue strains credulity, is the husband every woman wants and the father every child needs. He’s playful, heartfelt, empathetic, practical, and understands how to be a man of honor in a profession few people trust. These are all designs of a well-written screenplay, but Woody Harrelson knows precisely how to temper every trait to prevent any hint of melodrama. He’s a real man cut from a familiar cloth because Harrelson makes him that way.

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Officer Dixon, whose racism and general disregard for, well, the law, make him an abstractly detestable man, finds himself arguably the film’s most compelling character. He struggles to reconcile his abusive relationship with his mother and the feeling he’s gotten stifled (as well as, depending on who you ask, repressed homosexuality) with all the ways he’sproved unworthy of what he feels he deserves.

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Even as he throws Red, the local advertiser, out of a window after Willoughby’s death or throws a dirty, suspicious look at the new, black police chief, we do sense there’s more beneath the surface. He isn’t typically respectable; he’s arguably not respectable at all. Yet, the most relatable characters often try to do right and fail, at their expense as much as everyone else’s.

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Absent Rockwell’s ability to understand every character he plays, whether a wannabe "actor" from a fake TV show or a racist desperate for his mother’s love on an actual TV show, we wouldn’t understand Dixon either. He’d be another character we’re supposed to make a complex investment in but instead detest.

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But the film’s heart and soul is Mildred, and she embodies the change in perspective on this movie.

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With time comes the ability to appreciate nuance. Sure, the more self-indulgent aims at cinematic genius remain unworthy of our fascination or acclaim, but things don’t have to be so black and white. Many films do fail to blend genres and try to be multiple things. Many films do aim to say something profound or make us feel something visceral and fail spectacularly, whether because they’re more concerned with the auteur aspects of the craft instead of how to create an experience we remember.

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Mildred may not be accessible to every 21-year-old, every 29-year-old, or even to people a step from the grave, but that’sthe beauty of her character and Martin McDonagh’s incredible movie. At some point, we’ve experienced enough, or something so titanic in its significance to our lives, that we can understand and appreciate things and people more deeply. Mildred is far from classically sympathetic, but she’s much more so than typical protagonists.

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Why? Because at some point, whether in our personal lives or the workplace (or both), we experience something unfair. Difficult? Piece of cake. Traumatic? We got this, even if the road is long and hard. But we underestimate how impossible it feels to overcome something genuinely unfair. Outliving a child is unfair. Losing someone so horrifically is unfair. Sometimes, the most unfair things feel that way because we know we played a role. We could’ve zigged when we zagged or opened door 2 instead of door 1, but we didn’t.

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But even if we make mistakes, life isn’t supposed to punish us so brutally. The price we pay for harsh words or ineffectively navigating a troubled relationship shouldn’t be the most painful loss imaginable. How does Mildred move past that? At film’s end, by embarking on a journey to do something horrific but briefly contemplating the ethics of the deed. In that way, she feels much like us if we’re honest with ourselves. We always look down on others for not handling things the exact way society says is best: anyone who raises their voice is an abusive maniac, anyone who cries frequently is emotionally unstable, etc. Yet, anytime we yell, it is justified, and anytime we cry, it’s because we need to get it out of our system.

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If we gave others the consideration we give ourselves, we’d often find that nothing separates our and others' experiences. Mildred isn’t doing the right thing venturing to Idaho to commit vigilante murder, but we know how grief, guilt, and isolation drive us to the unthinkable. If you feel something earth-shattering and no one can help you fix it, if there is no fixing it, there’s no telling how far you’d go.

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At its core, that’s what Three Billboards is about: how far we’ll go. Yes, to get justice and hold others accountable, but ultimately, how far we’ll go to fix feelings that are too complex for resolution. It's about the futility of that chase but the need to chase regardless. Despite our empathy, it’s arguable that Mildred is wrong to put up those billboards, blaming Willoughby for something he cannot change. It’s justifiable anger, but without knowing the specifics, we can't take sides, and that’s okay. It’s not about right or wrong; it’s about pain.

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Eight years ago, there were many things about Three Billboards I didn’t get, but nearly a decade on, having gone through things that were deeply unfair, intensely traumatic, and still stir within me as I write this, there’s no denying that not only can I appreciate it cinematically, but emotionally too. It’s a testament to the power of movies: we can admire them for all their technical genius: tight, explorative writing, evocative music, impeccable performances, etc. But the most vital ability of a good movie is to give us characters that are accessible in a richly complex way, allowing us to feel taken on a journey alongside them and that we underwent one in our lives.

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All said, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri has proven a roaring success and exemplary introduction for “The Movies I Hate:” a movie I no longer “hate."