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A vivid peony of blood on white kitchen tiles leaps from the movie’s downbeat palette (the cinematography, by David Ungaro, is often quite striking), yet the body it came from inspires no feeling. There’s more emotional resonance in a Punch and Judy show.

A savage dispatch from the tweaker heartland, writer-director Tim Sutton’s Donnybrookknots several strands of new-millennium despair into something that very nearly approximates greatness in its first half.

Donnybrook, while speaking to the beauty of rural American landscapes as Sutton’s earlier work did, is a pulverizingly violent film.

This is a movie to which the term "derivative" entirely applies, a repellent mixture of Malick-like dreaminess, Scorsese-esque brutality and the lurid shock/schlock of William Faulkner in Sanctuary mode (just replace corncob rape with the grisly seduction-murder of an orgasming, pallid-skinned meth dealer).