If only the role Annabella Sciorra played hadn't been given the profession of a shrink, then her role in this awful, quasi-erotic thriller in the vein of BASIC INSTINCT would have had a more engaging approach. But shrinks getting themselves into a lot of unwanted heat and possibly even death by some unpleasant way was the raison d'etre of many "thrillers" capitalizing on the success of Paul Verhoeven's smash hit between 1992 and 1994, respectively, and this was one of the worst of the bunch.
The premise isn't bad. Actually, it's a distant relative in its elements to the premise of Anais Nin's "Spy in the House of Love" and in Marguerite Duras' "Moderato Cantabile", just with an update to bring a strong sensibility to the erotic mores of the times and the necessary potboiler plot that looked like something Joan Crawford could do in her sleep in the mid-Fifties when her career consisted of women falling for the wrong guy and being in mortal harm from their ulterior motives and unpredictable mood swings.
The problem herein lies not in the story itself but in the mode of execution. The introduction of the thriller mode in which a troubled woman is killed had been done with better success. If not, all one needs to do is take a peek at DRESSED TO KILL where Angie Dickinson's character, in looking for sex with a stranger, found quite a wallop but of something nastier in the place she least expected, and from the last person on Earth whom she would have guessed capable of such a thing.
The key phrase is "the last person on Earth ... capable of such a thing." It's a problem for thrillers because it sets up the viewer for a "surprise" which may or may not work. I don't like surprises, when it involves a character revealing him or herself to be the baddie all along and doing their own impression of a Jack-in-the-box, complete with a "Gotcha!" moment. It's too easy, it's the oldest trick in the book ("Maybe... the butler did it," quoted a certain butler from Robert Altman's nearly flawless 2001 movie GOSFORD PARK, but with a wink in the eye), and one that even a movie as exploitative as BASIC INSTINCT was knowingly playing on as bait with its tongue firmly planted in cheek.
No. I don't care for those surprises. It's what made me deny ever going to M. Night Shyamalan movies once it became patent and not actual cleverness in action. I want something more textured, a person's reaction to another person's dysfunction which may or may not have a conclusion, and even if there is the subject matter of a killer on the loose... why not play it up for the hell of it and perhaps let the story surprise the creator, and ultimately, the viewer? It's too bad. WHISPERS IN THE BARK, a title closest to romantic-suspense of the Avon category, falls apart at the seams and reveals it was a poorly built structure all along. Not a single performance can save this movie, and what the hell is Jill Clayburgh doing here of all places? Where did her career go, for crying out loud?
The premise isn't bad. Actually, it's a distant relative in its elements to the premise of Anais Nin's "Spy in the House of Love" and in Marguerite Duras' "Moderato Cantabile", just with an update to bring a strong sensibility to the erotic mores of the times and the necessary potboiler plot that looked like something Joan Crawford could do in her sleep in the mid-Fifties when her career consisted of women falling for the wrong guy and being in mortal harm from their ulterior motives and unpredictable mood swings.
The problem herein lies not in the story itself but in the mode of execution. The introduction of the thriller mode in which a troubled woman is killed had been done with better success. If not, all one needs to do is take a peek at DRESSED TO KILL where Angie Dickinson's character, in looking for sex with a stranger, found quite a wallop but of something nastier in the place she least expected, and from the last person on Earth whom she would have guessed capable of such a thing.
The key phrase is "the last person on Earth ... capable of such a thing." It's a problem for thrillers because it sets up the viewer for a "surprise" which may or may not work. I don't like surprises, when it involves a character revealing him or herself to be the baddie all along and doing their own impression of a Jack-in-the-box, complete with a "Gotcha!" moment. It's too easy, it's the oldest trick in the book ("Maybe... the butler did it," quoted a certain butler from Robert Altman's nearly flawless 2001 movie GOSFORD PARK, but with a wink in the eye), and one that even a movie as exploitative as BASIC INSTINCT was knowingly playing on as bait with its tongue firmly planted in cheek.
No. I don't care for those surprises. It's what made me deny ever going to M. Night Shyamalan movies once it became patent and not actual cleverness in action. I want something more textured, a person's reaction to another person's dysfunction which may or may not have a conclusion, and even if there is the subject matter of a killer on the loose... why not play it up for the hell of it and perhaps let the story surprise the creator, and ultimately, the viewer? It's too bad. WHISPERS IN THE BARK, a title closest to romantic-suspense of the Avon category, falls apart at the seams and reveals it was a poorly built structure all along. Not a single performance can save this movie, and what the hell is Jill Clayburgh doing here of all places? Where did her career go, for crying out loud?