I always enjoy Bill Pullman's work. He comes at us in a crab-like, sideways manner. He seems to speak out of the corner of his mouth and look at an object out of the corners of his eyes. His voice, soft and slightly crackling, is that of everyman, maybe somebody to play bridge with.
And Gabrielle Anwar is fine too. She has all the proper features of a formula Hollywood actress -- expressive eyes, strong but delicate nose, pulpy symmetrical lips, an exemplary figure -- but they don't add up to stunning beauty. The arrangement of her features results in a kind of compelling ugliness. Her acting is okay, a little on the weak side.
That just about gets the good stuff out of the way. The movie stinks. Pullman, in a moment of wanton drunkenness, more or less rapes Anwar. And when Pullman is appointed to a federal judgeship, he has her fired with a generous separation package so that she won't be around to make trouble.
But she does make trouble. She shows up wet and shivering in his office and threatens to spill the beans on him. Pullman then accidentally meets some young guy, rather a nice fellow, just out of jail and gives him an envelope containing money and the identity of the person Pullman wants murdered.
The ex inmate thinks the deal over and disposes of the unopened envelope. It is retrieved by one of his Goth goon friends who needs the money to pay off a debt to some local hoods. There follows a good deal of cutting back and forth as the good guy tries to save Anwar from the desperate bad guy and his friends.
No point going on with the plot. If you've seen any of the many thrillers along these lines you can pretty much figure it out without being drawn a picture, although one touch is at least slightly novel. After she repulses all attempts to warn her, Anwar actually IS battered to death. But it should come as no surprise that the good guy, trying frantically to warn her, should be blamed for the murder.
Okay. I won't go into the clichés except for one. The punk who steals the envelope. This was shot in wintry, soaking-wet British Columbia. The trees are bare. The temperature of every artifact is barely above freezing. Yet the killer drips with sweat. Outdoors or inside, it makes no difference. His face seems covered with canola oil. It's rubbed into his hair -- what there is of it. He wears the tonsure of a monk from the Dark Ages. His hair is cut in the shape of a bowl, with the razor line high enough to reveal the zig zag tattoo on his occiput. His features are those of a Middle Eastern sodomist and his face glows with evil. He wears filthy jeans and a black leather jacket with chain zippers. He lives in a garbage dump.
Getting the picture? You know what might have added a touch of originality to the script? I mean, aside from improvements in wardrobe, make up, and casting? If Pullman did not, in fact, represent arrogant male patriarchy. If Anwar had simply made up the story of the rape. It would have introduced a note of edgy ambiguity. After all, who is to say whether or not it happened, since there's no longer any evidence.
Some ten or fifteen years ago, a pretty young woman threatened Bill Cosby with exposure and degradation, claiming she was his illegitimate child. (She looked nothing like Bill Cosby although at least one courtroom artist simply copied Cosby's face onto her figure.) Cosby's tapped phone revealed a celebrity predator perfectly at ease with extortion, negotiating matter-of-factly to keep the price of her silence over a million dollars. A plot something like that would have saturated the movie with a kind of noirish shadowiness.
Instead, we simply have good and evil. The powerful white guy (and his wife) are counterfeit and duplicitous. Anwar and her would-be savior are innocent and good. These Manichean distinctions are beginning to irritate me, on and off the screen. You want to see uncomplicated good and bad? Watch a Roadrunner cartoon.
And Gabrielle Anwar is fine too. She has all the proper features of a formula Hollywood actress -- expressive eyes, strong but delicate nose, pulpy symmetrical lips, an exemplary figure -- but they don't add up to stunning beauty. The arrangement of her features results in a kind of compelling ugliness. Her acting is okay, a little on the weak side.
That just about gets the good stuff out of the way. The movie stinks. Pullman, in a moment of wanton drunkenness, more or less rapes Anwar. And when Pullman is appointed to a federal judgeship, he has her fired with a generous separation package so that she won't be around to make trouble.
But she does make trouble. She shows up wet and shivering in his office and threatens to spill the beans on him. Pullman then accidentally meets some young guy, rather a nice fellow, just out of jail and gives him an envelope containing money and the identity of the person Pullman wants murdered.
The ex inmate thinks the deal over and disposes of the unopened envelope. It is retrieved by one of his Goth goon friends who needs the money to pay off a debt to some local hoods. There follows a good deal of cutting back and forth as the good guy tries to save Anwar from the desperate bad guy and his friends.
No point going on with the plot. If you've seen any of the many thrillers along these lines you can pretty much figure it out without being drawn a picture, although one touch is at least slightly novel. After she repulses all attempts to warn her, Anwar actually IS battered to death. But it should come as no surprise that the good guy, trying frantically to warn her, should be blamed for the murder.
Okay. I won't go into the clichés except for one. The punk who steals the envelope. This was shot in wintry, soaking-wet British Columbia. The trees are bare. The temperature of every artifact is barely above freezing. Yet the killer drips with sweat. Outdoors or inside, it makes no difference. His face seems covered with canola oil. It's rubbed into his hair -- what there is of it. He wears the tonsure of a monk from the Dark Ages. His hair is cut in the shape of a bowl, with the razor line high enough to reveal the zig zag tattoo on his occiput. His features are those of a Middle Eastern sodomist and his face glows with evil. He wears filthy jeans and a black leather jacket with chain zippers. He lives in a garbage dump.
Getting the picture? You know what might have added a touch of originality to the script? I mean, aside from improvements in wardrobe, make up, and casting? If Pullman did not, in fact, represent arrogant male patriarchy. If Anwar had simply made up the story of the rape. It would have introduced a note of edgy ambiguity. After all, who is to say whether or not it happened, since there's no longer any evidence.
Some ten or fifteen years ago, a pretty young woman threatened Bill Cosby with exposure and degradation, claiming she was his illegitimate child. (She looked nothing like Bill Cosby although at least one courtroom artist simply copied Cosby's face onto her figure.) Cosby's tapped phone revealed a celebrity predator perfectly at ease with extortion, negotiating matter-of-factly to keep the price of her silence over a million dollars. A plot something like that would have saturated the movie with a kind of noirish shadowiness.
Instead, we simply have good and evil. The powerful white guy (and his wife) are counterfeit and duplicitous. Anwar and her would-be savior are innocent and good. These Manichean distinctions are beginning to irritate me, on and off the screen. You want to see uncomplicated good and bad? Watch a Roadrunner cartoon.