The tireless accumulation of production values threatens to stop cold the crazy lurches and jounces of the James Cain storyline. Every inch of the way, along a street called Memory Lane, one is aware of the care, the research, the expense, the no stone that went unturned. Everywhere one looks is exactly the right billboard, the right gas pump, the right Venetian blinds, the right roadside-diner coffee cups, napkin holders, sugar containers, the right neon sign, the right matchbook cover, the right Greyhound bus, the right everything. All of these rightnesses are painstakingly stockpiled, fastidiously arranged in place, and artfully photographed by Sven Nykvist in drained, harmonized colors — just as if they all had perfectly good reason to be. But what reason? Why the royal treatment for this gutter novel? Of all the acquired artifacts of a bygone era, the Cain novel itself holds its charm least well. And a sufficient reason to remake the 1946 adaptation of this book is hardly provided by the rougher and rawer sex, with Jack Nicholson treating Jessica Lange like the lump of bread dough that features prominently in the scene of their first coupling: girl, I knead you. Written by David Mamet; directed by Bob Rafelson. (1981) — Duncan Shepherd
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