Another serial killer movie but this one is different. A teen-aged boy, Jon Foster, murders his mother and father and perhaps others whose bodies aren't found. When he's released from a juvenile facility, the detective Russel Crowe is waiting outside for him with a kindly smile and a gift -- a crucifix. During an amiable chat, Crowe tells Foster that he's a psychopath and will kill again unless he's stopped. Crowe takes on the job, following him from Buffalo almost to Albany.
Along the way, Foster has picked up a sixteen-year-old girl who has run away from a home she dislikes, although it seems normal enough to a viewer. The girl is Sophie Traub. She's plain of feature, not unattractive, and has a dumpy figure like so many teens, and she knows all about Foster's criminal past. Foster attempts to get rid of her but she's tenacious. He plans to kill her twice -- once with a towel, once with a hammer -- but each time is interrupted by the police. It doesn't take the skills of a mind reader to know that Traub has a death with. She lies on a motel bed, exposes her throat, and begs him to "Do it; DO it!" He doesn't do it.
It has its moments, but frankly I don't get it. It's a turgid and sometimes confusing story. Laura Dern, my co-star, shows up in a small part. Crowe's wife has been in an auto accident and evidently is now a vegetable, although this has nothing to do with the story itself. I'd have to guess that the bedridden wife is there in order for us to see how tenderly Crowe washes her insensate body, then make an interpretive leap from that fact to Crowe's wanting to keep the boy in the slams to prevent him from damaging anyone else's family the way his wife has been damaged. I'm not the athlete I used to be and had trouble making that leap, succeeding only after three or four tries.
If the young girl wants to be killed -- okay. We can all understand that. But Jon Foster's character is impenetrable. He rarely speaks and when he does it's some bourgeois bromide. I have no idea what's going on inside his head, except that he's ridden with guilt, which any certified psychopath wouldn't be. He has multiple opportunities to murder the blond girl but the only times he tries is when he's thwarted.
The melancholic music -- including one of those sad, folksy ballads accompanied by a solo guitar, now arriving on the Leonard Cohen express -- tells us that everything is pretty bleak. And the score is right. It's depressing. Some things in its favor: it's far from being just another slasher movie. There's no blood at all. The characters are complex. And an ominous quality hangs over the entire picture. Some will find it artful.
Along the way, Foster has picked up a sixteen-year-old girl who has run away from a home she dislikes, although it seems normal enough to a viewer. The girl is Sophie Traub. She's plain of feature, not unattractive, and has a dumpy figure like so many teens, and she knows all about Foster's criminal past. Foster attempts to get rid of her but she's tenacious. He plans to kill her twice -- once with a towel, once with a hammer -- but each time is interrupted by the police. It doesn't take the skills of a mind reader to know that Traub has a death with. She lies on a motel bed, exposes her throat, and begs him to "Do it; DO it!" He doesn't do it.
It has its moments, but frankly I don't get it. It's a turgid and sometimes confusing story. Laura Dern, my co-star, shows up in a small part. Crowe's wife has been in an auto accident and evidently is now a vegetable, although this has nothing to do with the story itself. I'd have to guess that the bedridden wife is there in order for us to see how tenderly Crowe washes her insensate body, then make an interpretive leap from that fact to Crowe's wanting to keep the boy in the slams to prevent him from damaging anyone else's family the way his wife has been damaged. I'm not the athlete I used to be and had trouble making that leap, succeeding only after three or four tries.
If the young girl wants to be killed -- okay. We can all understand that. But Jon Foster's character is impenetrable. He rarely speaks and when he does it's some bourgeois bromide. I have no idea what's going on inside his head, except that he's ridden with guilt, which any certified psychopath wouldn't be. He has multiple opportunities to murder the blond girl but the only times he tries is when he's thwarted.
The melancholic music -- including one of those sad, folksy ballads accompanied by a solo guitar, now arriving on the Leonard Cohen express -- tells us that everything is pretty bleak. And the score is right. It's depressing. Some things in its favor: it's far from being just another slasher movie. There's no blood at all. The characters are complex. And an ominous quality hangs over the entire picture. Some will find it artful.