You’ve seen the right-wing version of this film countless times. Charles Bronson made a career out of killing guys like Kevin: the sneering psychopaths we love to hate. But every psycho has a mother. That’s the hook – both in Lynne Ramsay’s new adaptation of Kevin, and Lionel Shriver’s unusual best-seller. This is story of a woman’s private hell. The mood of the film is toxic: polluted love. You want to see Kevin pushed off a cliff. You want to see him hang, see him riddled with bullets. But he lives. This is not a thriller, or a horror story. There is no vengeful resolution, because the heart of the drama isn’t: Who will stop Kevin? It’s: Who’s to blame? His mother is an accomplice to the crime. She’s not the hero.