A hunch-playing, coarse-grained, and otherwise universal model New York detective (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) travels to London to ID the bodies of his daughter and her husband, butchered on their honeymoon by a couturier killer. But wait. It’s not the stitchery of one body-parts-transposing ghoul, but two. A young couple that, by the good fortune of the five (!) screenwriters it took to adapt the eponymous novel, settled on a shared career in serial killing. Director Danis Tanovic has a hard time keeping pace with the aridity of invention. The headquarters-addressed stamped clues, the viscous flashes of gore, the Big Apple bull poised to outsmart any of his Bobby-brethren… Isn’t there anything fresh on the menu? Just this: the identities of the pair and their desultory motivation in the name of art is but a bubble of originality floating atop a tank weighted down with neon confetti gravel. What follows is a matter of Xeroxing. (2020) — Scott Marks
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