This is another catch-the-pattern-murderer thriller, probably above average as these things go. I wouldn't mind reading the original novel. There's quite a bit of talent on screen here.
Kurt Russel is his usual virile self, and Mariel Hemingway (from some angles looking disturbingly like her grand dad) is a broad-shouldered long-limbed giantess with an appealingly girlish voice that has little range. But the supporting cast is neat. Joe Pantoliano is always an interesting actor and could have carried this movie as the lead, instead of a sidekick in a role that's not important to the plot. And Andy Garcia has sleek features and is a magnetic presence whenever he's in a scene. Richard Mazur, as an editor of the Miami Journal, is both practical-minded and surprisingly gentle in dealing with subordinates. Richard Jordan was past his pretty-boy phase here and that's nice because he's quite a character actor. In his first meeting with Russell he displays about the most ungainly flabby body seen on screen since Quasimodo. And his acting is flawless, an ominously deep baritone voice with the hint of a throb in it.
Some serial-killer movies have had worse plots than this. Russell, a good reporter, is having bouts of Angst. The "what's it all about" kind. He's tired of having his name appear next to snapshots of murder victims. (Mazur: "We don't manufacture the news, we're just retailers.") But he begins receiving phone calls from the murderer, who tips him, teases him, tells him where to find bodies, and gives him tantalizing hints. This is ordinary stuff by now. We had the same thing in "No Way to Treat a Lady," among others. Russell, however, is rather pleased in a very ambivalent way.
Mazur tells him: "Our editor thinks you may be headed into Pulitzer territory," and a self-satisfied smile spread slowly over Russel's face.
And that's part of the problem. There are some interesting possibilities here that the production takes no advantage of. Just what IS going on in Russels' mind? We know what's going on in the mind of his girl friend, Hemingway. After one of the calls, she screams at Russell and advises him to tell the murderer that he's an unspeakable piece of garbage. Not very helpful, and not too subtle either. But the inside of Russell's head is not where the movie wants to go. It settles for thrills.
There is a typical-standard chase through the swamps towards the end, where Jordan is keeping Hemingway captive. I positively hated the obligatory scenes using airboats. Big noisy wind machines that ride roughshod over any and every thing, living and dead, in the Everglades, vulgarizing a trip that in a row boat or canoe might have had spiritual qualities. Utilitarianism rampant. And they aren't necessary to the plot either. Nothing happens at the end of the rackety ride that couldn't have taken place at the end of a trip by car.
However, the point of their use is that they might be interesting to the viewer. They add loud sound and action to distract the viewer from anything he or she might be wondering about the characters or the plot. Movie getting dull? Throw in a fast-moving air boat. See how fast it moves? It's called an "airboat." Funny-looking thing, isn't it?
This tendency to clobber the viewer with clichés is annoying at times. And they were clichés long before they were used in "The Mean Season." Three times -- count 'em -- three times, a potential victim of violence sees something suspicious, or hears a door creak, and spooky music appears on the sound track, tremulous violins bespeaking threat. Then as the potential victim investigates, the violins shriek, the door or shower curtain is flung open -- and, lo, it's some harmless guy delivering pizza! This is pretty cheap stuff. Jack Arnold closed the book on it back in the 1950s sci fi movies like "Tarantula." Want more cheap tricks? The cops are chasing the murderer through a thicket of fig trees, they hear a gunshot and find a body with its face blasted unrecognizably off. "Well, he's dead now. It's all over." I ask you, the experienced viewer of slasher movies -- is it all over?
Lalo Schifrin, a real musician's musician, and an extremely talented one, offers us a nice crisp theme using a bluesy Clark-Terry-type trumpet. The rest of the time, alas, he seems to have been asleep at the piano. The three embedded but pointless shock scenes use a routine "sting" -- the viewer is zapped by the crashing dissonance just as the hand reaches out and touches the victim's shoulder. And at a point later in the movie Schifrin leans rather heavily on Bernard Herrmann's fandango from "North by Northwest" while during a scene involving a disabled Volkswagon we can hear precise echoes of "Cape Fear."
I commend the photographer and the make-up department though. After a brief fist fight, Russell and Jordan actually LOOK as if they'd been in a fight. And there are serendipitous shots of the weather. If you are phobic for thunderstorms, as I am, I recommend you watch this movie if only to see a handful of shots of some major "thunderstorm activity," as weathercasters like to call it. You'll get a real arousal jag out of the descending wall cloud. Tampa, Florida, is the thunderstorm capitol of the country, averaging 93 thunderstorm days a year.
Kurt Russel is his usual virile self, and Mariel Hemingway (from some angles looking disturbingly like her grand dad) is a broad-shouldered long-limbed giantess with an appealingly girlish voice that has little range. But the supporting cast is neat. Joe Pantoliano is always an interesting actor and could have carried this movie as the lead, instead of a sidekick in a role that's not important to the plot. And Andy Garcia has sleek features and is a magnetic presence whenever he's in a scene. Richard Mazur, as an editor of the Miami Journal, is both practical-minded and surprisingly gentle in dealing with subordinates. Richard Jordan was past his pretty-boy phase here and that's nice because he's quite a character actor. In his first meeting with Russell he displays about the most ungainly flabby body seen on screen since Quasimodo. And his acting is flawless, an ominously deep baritone voice with the hint of a throb in it.
Some serial-killer movies have had worse plots than this. Russell, a good reporter, is having bouts of Angst. The "what's it all about" kind. He's tired of having his name appear next to snapshots of murder victims. (Mazur: "We don't manufacture the news, we're just retailers.") But he begins receiving phone calls from the murderer, who tips him, teases him, tells him where to find bodies, and gives him tantalizing hints. This is ordinary stuff by now. We had the same thing in "No Way to Treat a Lady," among others. Russell, however, is rather pleased in a very ambivalent way.
Mazur tells him: "Our editor thinks you may be headed into Pulitzer territory," and a self-satisfied smile spread slowly over Russel's face.
And that's part of the problem. There are some interesting possibilities here that the production takes no advantage of. Just what IS going on in Russels' mind? We know what's going on in the mind of his girl friend, Hemingway. After one of the calls, she screams at Russell and advises him to tell the murderer that he's an unspeakable piece of garbage. Not very helpful, and not too subtle either. But the inside of Russell's head is not where the movie wants to go. It settles for thrills.
There is a typical-standard chase through the swamps towards the end, where Jordan is keeping Hemingway captive. I positively hated the obligatory scenes using airboats. Big noisy wind machines that ride roughshod over any and every thing, living and dead, in the Everglades, vulgarizing a trip that in a row boat or canoe might have had spiritual qualities. Utilitarianism rampant. And they aren't necessary to the plot either. Nothing happens at the end of the rackety ride that couldn't have taken place at the end of a trip by car.
However, the point of their use is that they might be interesting to the viewer. They add loud sound and action to distract the viewer from anything he or she might be wondering about the characters or the plot. Movie getting dull? Throw in a fast-moving air boat. See how fast it moves? It's called an "airboat." Funny-looking thing, isn't it?
This tendency to clobber the viewer with clichés is annoying at times. And they were clichés long before they were used in "The Mean Season." Three times -- count 'em -- three times, a potential victim of violence sees something suspicious, or hears a door creak, and spooky music appears on the sound track, tremulous violins bespeaking threat. Then as the potential victim investigates, the violins shriek, the door or shower curtain is flung open -- and, lo, it's some harmless guy delivering pizza! This is pretty cheap stuff. Jack Arnold closed the book on it back in the 1950s sci fi movies like "Tarantula." Want more cheap tricks? The cops are chasing the murderer through a thicket of fig trees, they hear a gunshot and find a body with its face blasted unrecognizably off. "Well, he's dead now. It's all over." I ask you, the experienced viewer of slasher movies -- is it all over?
Lalo Schifrin, a real musician's musician, and an extremely talented one, offers us a nice crisp theme using a bluesy Clark-Terry-type trumpet. The rest of the time, alas, he seems to have been asleep at the piano. The three embedded but pointless shock scenes use a routine "sting" -- the viewer is zapped by the crashing dissonance just as the hand reaches out and touches the victim's shoulder. And at a point later in the movie Schifrin leans rather heavily on Bernard Herrmann's fandango from "North by Northwest" while during a scene involving a disabled Volkswagon we can hear precise echoes of "Cape Fear."
I commend the photographer and the make-up department though. After a brief fist fight, Russell and Jordan actually LOOK as if they'd been in a fight. And there are serendipitous shots of the weather. If you are phobic for thunderstorms, as I am, I recommend you watch this movie if only to see a handful of shots of some major "thunderstorm activity," as weathercasters like to call it. You'll get a real arousal jag out of the descending wall cloud. Tampa, Florida, is the thunderstorm capitol of the country, averaging 93 thunderstorm days a year.