Small Crimes

The Joke’s on Him: Small Crimes and the Comedy of Self-Sabotage

I’ve seen this story before—a disgraced man returns home, hoping to outrun his past, only to find that the past has been waiting for him all along. It’s a familiar arc, the kind that usually plays out in somber tones, with a soundtrack of regret and a color palette drained of joy. But Small Crimes, E.L.

Katz’s 2017 dark comedy, doesn’t just tweak the formula; it gleefully dismantles it, turning what could have been a brooding redemption tale into something far more unsettling and, against all odds, funnier. The joke, of course, is on Joe Denton (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), the ex-cop whose idea of starting over involves stumbling from one bad decision to the next with the dogged persistence of a man who’s convinced himself he’s the hero of his own story.

Spoiler: he’s not.

Katz, whose previous work (Cheap Thrills) thrives on the absurdity of human desperation, doesn’t just dip his toes into the dark comedy pool here—he cannonballs in. Small Crimes is the kind of film that lures you in with the promise of a straightforward crime drama, then proceeds to undercut every expectation with a smirk. The tone is slippery, oscillating between deadpan humor and moments of genuine pathos, often within the same scene.

It’s a balancing act that shouldn’t work, but does, largely because Katz trusts his audience to keep up. There’s no hand-holding here, no winking at the camera to reassure you that, yes, this is supposed to be funny. The humor arises from the sheer audacity of Joe’s self-delusion, the way he clings to the belief that he’s still in control even as the world around him collapses into chaos.

Take the opening sequence, for instance. Joe is released from prison after serving six years for attempting to murder a district attorney. The moment should feel weighty, fraught with the gravity of a man stepping back into a life he’s no longer sure he deserves.

And it is—until it isn’t. The prison gates swing open, and Joe steps out, squinting into the sunlight like a man who’s just woken up from a long nap. There’s no fanfare, no dramatic music swell, just the quiet hum of a town that’s moved on without him.

His mother (Jacki Weaver) picks him up in a car that smells faintly of fast food and disappointment. The dialogue is sparse, the tension palpable, but then—Joe’s phone rings. It’s his ex-wife, and the conversation devolves into a petty argument about child support.