Atavistic film noir adapted from one of Jim Thompson's posthumously fashionable spit-and-chewing-gum jobs. The adapters (Stephen Frears, director; Donald Westlake, writer) have done well to eliminate a shockingly sentimental streak in the book, but in doing so they have further downshifted an already driftless plot. And the intermittent digressive flashback, ponderously explanatory, acts as a kind of dragging foot off a tricycle. The period, not including the underworld lingo, has been unpersuasively updated, and the atmosphere thins out in the process, so that the movie always seems to be hiding out from the world around it. All of the main characters are no-goodniks, and some of the interpreters follow suit. A platinum-headed Anjelica Huston gives loose rein to her propensity for operatic overkill; and Annette Bening, with a hairdo that resembles something from the ocean floor and a wardrobe as snug as surgical gloves, looks like bad news and broadcasts it at full blare. But John Cusack, never too convincing as a nice young man (Say Anything, The Sure Thing, etc.), seems perfectly acceptable as a cold-fish sociopath; and Pat Hingle brings great authority to a brief appearance as a Draconian mob boss. (1990) — Duncan Shepherd
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