Small towns are inherently sinister because there is nothing to do but speculate. I should know, I am currently residing in a small seaside town where the biggest event in recent memory was a strong windstorm from a few years back. Because nothing really terrible or excellent ever really happens in a town like this (not that that’s a bad thing), people get stuck in with a middle ground attitude. Every day should look the same, and if it doesn’t, that is a problem. There is a great deal of self policing needed to maintain this mundane but pretty appearance, a lot of weeding rather than planting new things. Sometimes this can get a bit extreme. For instance, I’ve met a woman who watches people through a pair of binoculars and calls the parking police if she sees anyone walking their dog on the beach, which is strictly forbidden. That is her hobby, it brings her joy every day. It’s like taking care of a garden that doesn’t belong to you. Another time, I received a call from police victim services after I was slightly accosted during work, a report I might add, I never called the police about. So, considering this place, I have always found Hot Fuzz rather relatable, although I have yet to uncover any secret councils here, not yet at least.
“You Can’t Just Make People Disappear”
“Yes I Can”
The film might be exaggerated, but what it exaggerates always comes from a truthful thing. That “greater good” mentality really does exist, and while it’s rarely followed with murder, it’s something we already recognize from small towns. It has also appeared in other films like Stepford Wives (1975), where women are turned into robots, so they all look and act the same way, and perform like a perfect 60’s housewife. Typically, the message of these films is that people will take extreme measures to create and reinforce a standard definition which everyone can understand and adhere to. The antagonists in these films argue that people are too complicated and that everyone should be the same, that way, we know what people are thinking, what they want, and how to stop them from doing anything spontaneous. Hot Fuzz, however, takes a slightly different approach by suggesting that teamwork and community are still good things, but only when they appreciate individuals as much as the group, so it’s critical of both mob mentality and narcissism. Nicholas eventually learns that he must have friends to save the town, although that doesn’t mean he has to stop being a strong individual fighter. That is largely because the antagonists in the film believe that ne’er-do-wells and heroes are the same breed, as any extreme action is bad. This is rather hypocritical of them, as by dismissing and eliminating extreme people, the cult is also behaving in an extreme way.
But the cult isn’t the only “greater good” phenomenon in the film, so is the legal system which Nicholas belongs to. Nicholas is an excellent police officer, too excellent in fact. Although one would think that preventing crime is a good thing, his proficiency is too showy and upstages everyone at the precinct. Nicholas isn’t your average rogue cop, or the type who gets the job done but never follows the rules. Nicholas insistently follows the rules, it is his one flaw. His dedication highlights how broken the legal system is, as he is the only one capable of stopping crime, and everyone else is fine with stopping occasional crime, not all. By maintaining the system to an extreme degree, he damages its reputation. This continues throughout the film, as the police networks consistently parallels the small town, as both are obsessed with the status quo, where no exceptional behaviour can exist.
If you have seen an Edgar Wright film, you know that his work is perhaps the finest example of show don’t tell. Every screenwriter is told that phrase repeatedly, but it is a difficult balancing act. You want your viewer to understand what is happening, but your viewer might also be rather stupid, and so its tempting to just exposition every plot and context. It feels like exposition is a faster and easier option than finding clever ways to drop hints visually. Wright proves that visual storytelling can be a source of comedy, as a frame and cut can be as entertaining and informative as a standard shot reverse shot scene or a walking and talking sequence. Most of his films, particularly Hot Fuzz, extend seemingly mundane things and actions and find comedy in them. Rather than quickly explaining a situation with a single shot, Wright breaks things down, and finds character in the simple action of dialing a phone or sitting down. Each of these moments tell us about who the character is, how they are feeling, as well as the general tone of the scene. Sometimes this is done in the background of a scene, without drawing too much attention to it. It is done in a direct way in the “Good luck Nicholas” scene in Hot Fuzz, so the viewer and Nicholas can have the same experience. The scene is too structured and orchestrated, and Nicholas immediately picks up on this strange environment, but can’t do anything about it. Just as he is looking for information, so are we, which puts us in the same position. That said, I want to spend some time unpacking how this sequence operates before exploring why it foreshadows the rest of the film.
“How’s the Hand?”
The first shot in this sequence tells us exactly how this conversation will unfold. We begin with a shot of a blue binder quickly siding down, cutting the frame, to revealing the Sergeant. Not only is this an abrupt way to start a conversation, it implies that this conversation will be equally abrupt and choregraphed. It’s a deliberate move, the Sergeant has prepared for this discussion, unlike Nicholas. He has spent time calculating Nicholas’ career and personality, so Nicholas will have no other choice than to leave the precinct. He is essentially showing Nicholas these credentials before even showing his face, suggesting that these documents and facts will support everything he has to say. The smoothness with which the binder cuts across the frame continues throughout this fast-paced scene, but only when Nicholas’ colleagues are speaking. They have prepared every possible argument, and the filmmaking demonstrates this. For instance, Nicholas’ colleagues are consistently framed in different ways, while Nicholas is framed in one shot, a closer version of that shot, and then a side angle. The Sergeant and Inspector’s frames are often changing, almost dancing around Nicholas, just as their arguments do. Everything about them is carefully orchestrated, and so is their shot composition. As an example, when the Sergeant first describes Nicholas’ reassignment to the country, the camera pans behind Nicholas, as though someone is walking in the hallway and looking in. That smooth glide also implies that what Sergeant is saying is a prepared response, one which he has practiced enough so it rolls off the tongue with as much ease as this glide.
Another way the scene emphasizes this calculated atmosphere is by repeating dialogue and posture, as though each figure has rehearsed before Nicholas arrived in the office. When Nicholas asks to speak with the Inspector, the Sergeant dials the number with exact precision and no hesitation. Just as we think the Sergeant is about to lean back into the frame, the Inspector suddenly appears in his place. This illustrates that although the Sergeant and Inspector are separate people, they occupy the same space, tone, and conversation, as they are on the exact same page. First, the Inspector asks how Nicholas’ hand is feeling, just as the Sergeant did. Then, when Nicholas becomes agitated, he asks if Nicholas would like to speak to the Chief Inspector, one step up from him. Similar events already happened in Nicholas’ conversation with the Inspector, and so the scene repeats itself in an eerie fashion. It is too syncopated to be human, too perfect. We return to that atmosphere throughout the film, as Nicholas routinely comes across scenes which are troubling simply because they are too perfect. But more on that later.
The Chief Inspector’s entrance is my favourite moment in the scene because of how it reorganizes this pattern. We are about 2 minutes into the scene, and by now, we know how this will play out. We assume that the Chief Inspector will arrive in the exact same way as the Inspector. However, in assuming this, it wouldn’t be unexpected or abrupt, and so the film has to change its pattern. Rather than phoning the Chief, it is revealed that the Chief was waiting outside of the room. The Inspector’s body language suggests otherwise, as he points up when talking about the Chief, he starts to lean towards the phone, asking the same question as the Sergeant did at the beginning of the pattern. He implies that phoning the Chief is a massive deal, we even get intense music. But it isn’t a big deal, and the music quickly cuts away. The Chief is already aware of the situation, in fact, he has been watching the entire thing. I would argue that he is the unseen eye in the scene, the sort of master choreographer behind the exchange. He mirrors Inspector Frank (the police head in Sandford) because of this status, as both are sinister governing bodies who are obsessed with image. So, when the Chief notes, “Now, I know what you are going to say”, he is gesturing right to this pattern. We also know what Nicholas is going to say, and what the Chief will say, as we have already watched this interaction two times.
“You Can’t Be the Sheriff of London”
That said, the Chief is more direct and honest than the Sergeant and Inspector. He admits that the precinct wants to get rid of Nicholas because if they let him carry on being exceptional, he will just make everyone look bad. He is never unkind with this statement, as he smiles the entire time and suggests that he has Nicholas’ best interests at heart. But the smile is still forceful, there is even this disturbing twitch at one moment. It is the same approach used by the secret council in Sandford, as they are never outright evil, they are just obsessed with “the greater good”. Of course, the film goes on to ask why they get to determine what is for “the greater good” and what isn’t, but in the meantime, we get these two very similar approaches from different institutions. Nicholas’ squad should be the good guys, tasked with stopping crime and protecting people. But that isn’t the case, and they are more like the cult than to Nicolas. We get this comparison between Nicolas’ version of the law and everyone else’s, including other police. They aren’t corrupt, they are just too literal or big picture oriented.
I find it interesting that although the film sets up this dichotomy between the individual (fighting for what is right and legal) versus the cult (a distorted version of that legal), it eventually bypasses this reading. Nicholas forms a team, which is exactly what his superiors wanted him to do in the first place. However, rather than playing dumb to keep up a standard image, Nicholas revises what it means to be a team player. Instead of forming a group for a unified “greater good”, Nicolas’ team are eclectic and come to the group with vastly different skill levels and talents. This suggests that you still need a team, but it shouldn’t be single minded. Had Danny never introduced Nicholas to his movie passion, Nicholas would never have been prepared to fight the cult. It is the difference between Nicholas and Danny which saves the town. Hot Fuzz praises the exceptional, but also implies that those truly exceptional are smart enough to listen to opinions and perspectives other than their own.