Tribeca '24: The Shallow Tale of a Writer Who Decided to Write About a Serial Killer: "Yes, Sir, I Can Boogie."

The irony that comes along with being a self-proclaimed writer who has found themselves lost for words can feel, at times, like it is killing you. Solace can only be found by commiserating with the thousands of other creatives also agonizing over burnout in an increasingly competitive market. It is a beast that comes for us all— even Fran Lebowitz, a prolific author wittier than me or anyone reading this, has battled her infamous writer’s block since 1994. A blank page has antagonized the silver screen for decades, ranging from comedy Paris When it Sizzles to horror titan The Shining. This shortcoming is so relatable it crosses art forms and makes John Magaro’s Keane in The Shallow Tale of a Write Who Decided to Write About a Serial Killer a likable darling of a protagonist from the start.

The Shallow Tale, which celebrated its world premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York City, approaches this struggle in a comedic serial killer drama that tiptoes away from the slasher genre. The film follows Keane, who has not had a successful book in years, as he tries to financially support alpha female wife Suzie (Britt Lower) and convince her not to proceed with filing for divorce. 

Hope comes in the form of fan (stalker?) Kollmick—a deliciously creepy Steve Buscemi—who just keeps turning up after Keane’s worst moments. 

Kollmick introduces himself at a diner after Keane’s agent demands a snappier pitch, and  reappears in the bar Keane escapes to after Suzie threatens to end their marriage. If Kollmick  is to be believed, he is a retired serial killer, and would like nothing more than for his favorite  author Keane to write a book on his life. They would keep him anonymous and the details  fuzzy, just vague enough to tell the truth without admitting the crimes were real. A drunken Keane agrees after the pair stumble into Keane’s brownstone (Suzie seems to be doing fine  paying the bills) and evade his wife’s questions by implying Kollmick is their new marriage  counselor. 

Thus, The Shallow Tale hits the ground running as Kollmick must save Keane’s marriage, and Keane must learn the intricacies of killing humans for sport. The film’s greatest strength is the pleasant absurdism of writer/director Tolga Karaçelik’s script and his actors’ abilities to pull it off. Lower in particular shines as Suzie, reciting her lines monotone and disgusted, simultaneously streaking her face with mascara tears. Suzie could easily be described as a bully but her performance is layered with enough frustrated charisma to overcome the nagging wife trope.

The Shallow Tale is funny, and the setting was crafted with care. Tight, blood red hotel halls are shadowed by golden tungsten lighting and street lamps pepper a rainy New York. Credit must be given to production designer Lance Mitchell, cinematographer Natalie Kingston, and composer Nathan W. Klein for their work creating such a playful and overwhelming atmosphere. It feels like New York, but it also feels like the romanticized New York one may find in a detective novel.

If you are expecting Buscemi’s Kollmick to be a character actor’s Michael Myers, perish the thought. Magaro and Buscemi reverse the buddy cop genre to become criminals together in a way that can only be described as heartwarming. Their chemistry is easy and their bits are never forced. I found myself slightly disappointed by my own expectations: serial killer spells “slasher” to my horror-addled brain, and the violence is extremely minimal and often a gag. Keane’s goals begin to feel a little vague, and the memoir seems to vaporize as he takes on more of Kollmick’s… eccentricities. The most memorable of these quirks would be Kollmick’s leitmotif: 1977 hit single “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie,” by Spanish duo Baccara. It consistently remains in the diegesis as it is also his favorite killing song. The disco lyrics work to encourage Keane to keep up. I can do it, I can understand you—all night long.

Nevertheless, it never delves deep enough into the griminess of a serial killer’s life. This is not to say that the title is misleading, just that the plot is less focused on maiming and more on the taming of Keane’s cartoonish marriage. Despite its titular (and occasionally apt) shallowness, Karaçelik’s entry at Tribeca is a great ride that manages to find moments of poignancy. Perhaps the push we need to secure healthy relationships and commitment to our craft is a little thrill, a little jolt from Steve Buscemi, whispering in our ear that death is inevitable so we may as well do what we love.

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