There aren't many good movies about necrophilia. For one thing, the subject is pretty disgusting. After even a few hours it's hard to make yourself believe that this was once a living human being. And to play a necrophiliac is, let's say, a challenge. Molly Parker pulled it off brilliantly in "Kissed" but here, John Diehl as the sinewy killer doesn't. He kills young whores on the Sunset Strip, takes the corpses home, and has his way with them. Actually, when you get right down to it, making love to a corpse sounds a little dull, but let's not talk about my marriage. Diehl sucks the innards out of a tiny hole in a raw egg while staring at his mother's photo. I don't think the laws of physics allow you to do that, but no matter. He finally scrunches the whole egg, shell and all, into his obscenely sucking mouth.
The theme itself is a familiar one -- another serial killer. But there are a lot of colorful characters built into the plot around this monster. They all hang together on Sunset Boulevard and play hop scotch over the name plates in the sidewalk. They all seem to know one another.
There's Susan Tyrrell as the punk landscape painter manqué. She has a voice whose croak is as distinctive as her Goth garb. She was my supporting player in the art house classic, "Windmills of the Gods." She and Cliff Gorman, the detective, are the two most skilled performers in the cast. Then there is Steven Porter as Yoyo Charlie, shy, dressed like Emmet Kelly, who "adores Donna Wilkes from afar." And, as impressive as any of the other goofy buskers, is Rory Calhoun, ex cowboy star, never much of an actor but still going strong and very likable. He gives the role everything he's got, which doesn't include nuance. Dick Shawn is the catty cross-dresser with a heart of gold.
Donna Wilkes -- high school student and honorable daughter by day, hooker by night -- is neither here nor there as an actress. She doesn't drop the ball entirely, just juggles around uncertainly with it, but she's not up to the bizarre levels of her street buddies. And she's too old for her role, despite the pig tails, but then so is everyone else in her high school class. Peter Jason, as the first john we see her with, overacts to the point of embarrassment. It's not even funny.
I can believe that the hustlers and whores know one another but it gives a false impression of what Los Angeles (and Southern California) is like in general. Think of the bustles, shouts, curses, and intrusions on the fetid streets of New York. Now take all that energy away. Los Angeles is not a village. It's an intricate system of freeways with some houses and malls sprinkled between.
The direction is routine, appropriate to a television movie, filled with jumbo close ups for the small screen, as in a commercial for a brokerage firm. The photography and lighting are pretty good, though. They DO evoke the Strip in the 80s. Except, I suppose at the director's insistence, the men who stand in the police line up are illuminated by kick lights on the floor, turning them all into zombies. You wouldn't be able to identify your father. The story -- well, it winds up with Angel striding grimly along Hollywood Boulevard, stalking a fake Hare Krishna while holding a huge revolver in her hand.
It's not a very good film. Serial killers have been subject to pattern exhaustion by now but I have nothing against them. "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer" nettles the brain and "Se7evn," despite the stupid transposition of a letter and number, and in spite of all that dark rain, is truly spooky.
The theme itself is a familiar one -- another serial killer. But there are a lot of colorful characters built into the plot around this monster. They all hang together on Sunset Boulevard and play hop scotch over the name plates in the sidewalk. They all seem to know one another.
There's Susan Tyrrell as the punk landscape painter manqué. She has a voice whose croak is as distinctive as her Goth garb. She was my supporting player in the art house classic, "Windmills of the Gods." She and Cliff Gorman, the detective, are the two most skilled performers in the cast. Then there is Steven Porter as Yoyo Charlie, shy, dressed like Emmet Kelly, who "adores Donna Wilkes from afar." And, as impressive as any of the other goofy buskers, is Rory Calhoun, ex cowboy star, never much of an actor but still going strong and very likable. He gives the role everything he's got, which doesn't include nuance. Dick Shawn is the catty cross-dresser with a heart of gold.
Donna Wilkes -- high school student and honorable daughter by day, hooker by night -- is neither here nor there as an actress. She doesn't drop the ball entirely, just juggles around uncertainly with it, but she's not up to the bizarre levels of her street buddies. And she's too old for her role, despite the pig tails, but then so is everyone else in her high school class. Peter Jason, as the first john we see her with, overacts to the point of embarrassment. It's not even funny.
I can believe that the hustlers and whores know one another but it gives a false impression of what Los Angeles (and Southern California) is like in general. Think of the bustles, shouts, curses, and intrusions on the fetid streets of New York. Now take all that energy away. Los Angeles is not a village. It's an intricate system of freeways with some houses and malls sprinkled between.
The direction is routine, appropriate to a television movie, filled with jumbo close ups for the small screen, as in a commercial for a brokerage firm. The photography and lighting are pretty good, though. They DO evoke the Strip in the 80s. Except, I suppose at the director's insistence, the men who stand in the police line up are illuminated by kick lights on the floor, turning them all into zombies. You wouldn't be able to identify your father. The story -- well, it winds up with Angel striding grimly along Hollywood Boulevard, stalking a fake Hare Krishna while holding a huge revolver in her hand.
It's not a very good film. Serial killers have been subject to pattern exhaustion by now but I have nothing against them. "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer" nettles the brain and "Se7evn," despite the stupid transposition of a letter and number, and in spite of all that dark rain, is truly spooky.