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Two escaped convicts step out of the woods and shoot two campers in the head. That's the first scene, and it made me wince, fearing what was in store. But by the end of the first half hour I was all swept up in the flood of images. Not because I cared in the least about any of the characters but because I was aghast at how execrable the film was and was curious to see how truly low it could sink.
Frank (Remar) and Red (Woolvett) are the ex-inmates. After murdering the two innocent campers they plow through the woods and wangle their way into the isolated cabin of Dean Stockwell and his two sons, the attorney Keith and the estranged homosexual Behr. The escapees at first pretend their car has broken down and they need to use the phone, but they gradually reveal their identities.
Well, it looks like familiar territory so far. "Desperate Hours," or "Funny Games" maybe. But -- hang on -- the gay son is in cahoots with the two. It seems that Stockwell, upon discovering his son in flagrante delicto with another man named Billy, kicked Billy around and threw him out. Billy went on to die and Behr now blames his Dad for the death. And, indeed, Dad is something of a Neanderthal when it comes to paraphilias, the fact that he was just found cohabiting with a secretary notwithstanding.
The grief-stricken Behr just searched and searched, looking for someone else who had known Billy, someone with whom he could share his despair. It turned out to be one of the escapees, and now Behr is determined to see them to their freedom.
It gets all twisted after that. People talk. They talk and talk. They talk continually. And NOT about the two mad killers who just can't wait to put one between their eyes. No -- the dialog goes something like, "You were just so scared of something inside yourself that you even drove away your own SON." That's Behr, the young gay guy, talking to Stockwell. It's as if an afternoon domestic drama had had its genes mixed with a killer thriller in some kind of transformational device or cocktail shaker.
The only real performance is given by James Remar as the more talkative and ominous of the two escapees. And that's mainly because of his gruff but fluid baritone, which sounds like Lance Henrickson's, and his wide guppy-like lips. He's easy on the eyes and ears.
Dean Stockwell has given decent performances, including his inestimable bizarro turn in "Blue Velvet," in which he was my supporting player, but here laziness, advancing years, or slack direction has shaped his every move and every utterance into a stereotype. It's as if he were reading stage directions -- "Look surprised" and "shout angrily" -- and following them literally. There's not a surprise in a cartload.
If the gay son, Jason Behr, ever blinked, it must have been while I was blinking at the same time because I missed it. He has a long neck and just one expression in his instrument. Woolvett as the secondary villain fades into the pine-knot paneled woodwork. The attorney son is Robert Glen Keith. I hope he didn't quit his day job.
The direction is pedestrian, the staging functional without being in the least innovative. Sometimes it's confusing. I lost track of where everyone was supposed to be as the killers are circling around on the cabin's porch and the family has locked itself inside with a shotgun. I also couldn't understand how Stockwell could put a blast through the cabin's door, hit Remar, and knock him in a back flip off the porch, and then Remar could simply stand up, dust himself off, and come up with a cranky riposte like, "Okay. Two can play that game." But why go on? See it if you must.


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