A knowing, wallowing, winking film noir, post-David Lynch, post-Jennifer Lynch even, wherein extremity and excess pass for profundity. The crooked-cop hero (Gary Oldman: not quite so bad as the cop in Bad Lieutenant, more like merely a Bad Sergeant) narrates the tale in the third person -- an acceptable gimmick (for alienation, schizophrenia, whatever): "He walked around just like anybody. But inside, he wasn't like anybody." Less acceptable, though, is the sudden flashforward and freeze-frame accompanied by the text, "I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. Pretend you didn't see that." The femme fatale of Lena Olin attains almost a superhuman dimension: a Terminator-like ability to overcome the loss of a limb, an inexplicable capacity to conjure up key hostages. Olin at least, aiming for a Lauren Bacall vocal register, appears to be having fun. Olin alone. With Juliette Lewis, Annabella Sciorra, Roy Scheider; directed by Peter Medak. (1994) — Duncan Shepherd
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