In contention for one of the dumbest titles of the year. "After Dark, My Sweet," which has absolutely nothing to do with the plot and which sounds like a Zucker brothers parody, a combination of "Wait Until Dark" and "Murder, My Sweet." Actually it's considerably better than that. I didn't mind the narration by a dead man. That's an established convention by now, shocking though it may have been in 1950's "Sunset Boulevard." The story has Jason Patric, who doesn't seem to know how to spell his last name, as a washed-up ex boxer, working from place to place as a handyman, until he winds up at the desert spread of widow Rachel Ward, who welcomes him with open arms except that they don't quite open. Through her, he meets a dodgy old character, Bruce Dern.
Ward and Dern have cooked up a kidnapping scheme. They'll nab the little boy of a rich family, secrete him in Ward's house, and collect a king's ransom before returning him. But, as usual in these schemes, the center cannot hold, things fall apart. Everybody appears to be on the verge of double crossing everybody else. There's an automatic pistol that changes hands. To make things more complicated, the kid is a diabetic.
The cute little sick boy is played by James Cotton. He's a sweet kid. He only says a few lines, and doesn't complain even when he's going into shock. This is in strict contrast to my own boy who, at that age, would never shut up. I had to beat him senseless to keep him quiet, but it worked. He hasn't spoken to me in twenty years but I understand his mime act is widely celebrated in Europe.
Jason Patric does pretty well by the role of the slouching, disheveled, not-quite-all-there patsy, taciturn and suspicious. Rachel Ward gives a highly animated performance that contrasts nicely with Patric's reticence. Bruce Dern toggles between astonishment and supreme confidence.
Best performance: George Dickerson as the well-meaning but meddling Doctor Goldberg, a paragon of probity. His expression bleeds with bourgeois concern. He NEEDS to help you. He was equally believable in an evil role in "The Parallax View." I found the story itself confusing. I don't know why the guy was who put a hole through Bruce Dern, or why. I still don't know what was going on in Rachel Ward's mind. And Patric himself is an enigma, despite the philosophical mutterings.
Yet the film is involving. There's a scene in which Patric, dressed in rags, tumbles off the back of a truck he's been riding on, lights on the lavender sand of a bleak desert at twilight, and breaks the bottle of wine he has stashed in his jacket. He stumbles to his feet and listens to the silent wasteland. It's the kind of desperation I've been trying to avoid all my life.
Ward and Dern have cooked up a kidnapping scheme. They'll nab the little boy of a rich family, secrete him in Ward's house, and collect a king's ransom before returning him. But, as usual in these schemes, the center cannot hold, things fall apart. Everybody appears to be on the verge of double crossing everybody else. There's an automatic pistol that changes hands. To make things more complicated, the kid is a diabetic.
The cute little sick boy is played by James Cotton. He's a sweet kid. He only says a few lines, and doesn't complain even when he's going into shock. This is in strict contrast to my own boy who, at that age, would never shut up. I had to beat him senseless to keep him quiet, but it worked. He hasn't spoken to me in twenty years but I understand his mime act is widely celebrated in Europe.
Jason Patric does pretty well by the role of the slouching, disheveled, not-quite-all-there patsy, taciturn and suspicious. Rachel Ward gives a highly animated performance that contrasts nicely with Patric's reticence. Bruce Dern toggles between astonishment and supreme confidence.
Best performance: George Dickerson as the well-meaning but meddling Doctor Goldberg, a paragon of probity. His expression bleeds with bourgeois concern. He NEEDS to help you. He was equally believable in an evil role in "The Parallax View." I found the story itself confusing. I don't know why the guy was who put a hole through Bruce Dern, or why. I still don't know what was going on in Rachel Ward's mind. And Patric himself is an enigma, despite the philosophical mutterings.
Yet the film is involving. There's a scene in which Patric, dressed in rags, tumbles off the back of a truck he's been riding on, lights on the lavender sand of a bleak desert at twilight, and breaks the bottle of wine he has stashed in his jacket. He stumbles to his feet and listens to the silent wasteland. It's the kind of desperation I've been trying to avoid all my life.