Seldom has the decline from hit to sequel in a theatrical release been this severe. B.I. 2 is an awful movie (B.O. might be more accurate), coasting on fumes left over from the sizzling sensuality of the 1992 thriller that made Sharon Stone a star.
First of all, Stone is absolutely not too old to reprise her femme fatale, Catherine Trammel. Though we don't see as much of her body this time, at 48 she's still got enough of the icy cool sexuality to toy with the men around her, despite their authority over her. It's the script that's flaccid, further sapped by British TV actor David Morrissey replacing Michael Douglas as the male lead. Douglas played a tormented cop, torn between convicting and bedding her; Morrissey's a tormented psychiatrist who can't tell whether she's a psychopath or the love of his life. The guy's such a stiff, one wonders how many wiser Clive-Owen wannabes read the script and declined. Morrissey's wife is Sigmund Freud's great-granddaughter, which apparently qualifies him more for the part than either his charisma or chemistry with Ms. Stone. He imbues this shrink with about the same emotional range as the office couch.
In a sexy, but almost cartoonish, opening sequence, Stone drives a drugged-out dude around London for a high-speed thrill ride that ends in his death. Once again, the circumstances ominously match the plot of one of her novels. A detective (David Thewlis) seems hell-bent on convicting her, and brings in Morrissey for a medical opinion on how dangerous she may be to herself and others. The rest of the film involves more murders and another guessing game about whether Stone is the killer, someone else's front, or even a potential victim, while dredging up various devils and temptations of Dr. Dull.
Everything about this story feels contrived, failing to create characters or a situation that stirs the emotions as the first one did. The original interrogation scene has become a film classic, even apart from Ms. Stone's controversial leg-crossing. Its analog here is so ill-conceived, director Michael Caton-Jones almost seems to have intended parody, rather than an homage.
At one point Stone's Catherine asks the shrink who he thinks she's gonna kill next? In real life, her most obvious choices would be among the writers, director and her agent.
First of all, Stone is absolutely not too old to reprise her femme fatale, Catherine Trammel. Though we don't see as much of her body this time, at 48 she's still got enough of the icy cool sexuality to toy with the men around her, despite their authority over her. It's the script that's flaccid, further sapped by British TV actor David Morrissey replacing Michael Douglas as the male lead. Douglas played a tormented cop, torn between convicting and bedding her; Morrissey's a tormented psychiatrist who can't tell whether she's a psychopath or the love of his life. The guy's such a stiff, one wonders how many wiser Clive-Owen wannabes read the script and declined. Morrissey's wife is Sigmund Freud's great-granddaughter, which apparently qualifies him more for the part than either his charisma or chemistry with Ms. Stone. He imbues this shrink with about the same emotional range as the office couch.
In a sexy, but almost cartoonish, opening sequence, Stone drives a drugged-out dude around London for a high-speed thrill ride that ends in his death. Once again, the circumstances ominously match the plot of one of her novels. A detective (David Thewlis) seems hell-bent on convicting her, and brings in Morrissey for a medical opinion on how dangerous she may be to herself and others. The rest of the film involves more murders and another guessing game about whether Stone is the killer, someone else's front, or even a potential victim, while dredging up various devils and temptations of Dr. Dull.
Everything about this story feels contrived, failing to create characters or a situation that stirs the emotions as the first one did. The original interrogation scene has become a film classic, even apart from Ms. Stone's controversial leg-crossing. Its analog here is so ill-conceived, director Michael Caton-Jones almost seems to have intended parody, rather than an homage.
At one point Stone's Catherine asks the shrink who he thinks she's gonna kill next? In real life, her most obvious choices would be among the writers, director and her agent.