Accept the titillating cheekiness; for these steamy, mature, and surprisingly high brow thrillers still deserve your time and attention.
Bound
Art Deco designs, leather jackets, lingerie, and two cups of coffee that go both ways set the tongue in cheek, vintage mood for this 1996 Wachowskis’ (The Matrix) saucy starring Jennifer Tilly (High Spirits), Gina Gershon (Showgirls), and Joe Pantoliano (Memento). Attention to detail between lookalike women and flirtatious camera blocking upend the male gaze with a lesbian point of view. Dirty white tank tops versus black lace lead to plumbing, tattoo titillation, wet fingers, and pillow talk. Up close lips distract viewers – we think we see more than we actually do amid the nipples, nibbles, wrapped legs, and tawdry flexing. Seductive heist montages hinge on the 50s wife dressed for her man with his drink at the ready – speaking in that Marilyn breathlessness when telling him what he wants to hear. Men with feminine names are camp stereotypes in colorful suits playing mobster big alongside symbolic pick up trucks and red nail polish. It’s our man doing the domestic duty of literally laundering, drying, and ironing the bloody money. Retro lighting, choice zooms, and swanky overhead angles accentuate character realizations while reminding us how feminine film noir can be. The men go off half-cocked, hysterical with hammy colloquialisms when coppers knock on the door, and it’s the women who fix the betrayals and double crosses. Tom Jones cues punctuate the elevators, staircases, and minimal location claustrophobia before gunshots and white paint culminate in a preposterous noir satire.
The Hand That Rocks The Cradle
Curtis Hanson (L.A. Confidential) directs Rebecca De Mornay (Risky Business), Annabella Sciorra (The Sopranos), and more familiar faces in this 1992 potboiler. Medical assaults, miscarriages, and consequences disrupt the idyllic home, and our vengeful nanny is initially a saving grace. They never check her letter of reference, and it’s easy for De Mornay to enter and exploit, deliciously feigning a softer voice as private rage and disgusted threats reveal Peyton’s true instability. Intercut tension and pain parallel our mothers, however blonde versus brunette women ascend or descend the staircase, interchangeable as their powers shift in the congested house. There’s even a certain intimacy as domestic duties are shared and the women talk about sex. Ineffectual men admire the supple see-through nightgown and wet clothes in the rain before Peyton secretly nurses the son that she thinks is hers. Handyman accusations show how easy it is to insinuate, make innocent meetings appear deceitful, and sow suspicion. Real filming locations and bright bay windows mean everything happens in broad daylight under our nose. The camera zoom lingers, leering where it shouldn’t before fists, shovels, knives, shattering glass, and domestic destruction. Greenhouse dangers, empty asthma inhalers, and attic confrontations make for memorable vignettes and alluring, scene chewing performances.
Knight Moves
Chess and murder collide for then-couple Christopher Lambert (Highlander) and Diane Lane (Unfaithful) in this clever 1992 thriller opening with a very creepy black and white 70s chess match. The clock ticking pressure leads to violence at the loss before our current winner Lambert puts his daughter to bed. He then gets right to the juicy “I Put a Spell on You” black garter belt montage but denies the casual dalliance when she ends up dead. Testy interrogations with no nonsense cops Tom Skerritt (Alien) and Daniel Baldwin (Homicide: Life on the Street) mean everyone is ridiculously macho amid crime scene graffiti, squad room chalkboards, and a killer always one step ahead of the phone trace. Psychologist Lane is steamy in the sauna indeed with drinks, cigarettes, slow motion saucy, and suspicions on who is playing whom. Real estate connections, big old computer details, and mad lib ransom notes lead to well paced bait and switch police stakeouts. Certainly there are preposterous contrivances, but this takes some unexpected turns before children in peril demands our over the top chess masters fight mano y mano. The grainy feel, shadowed lighting, and cigarette smoke may be too low budget eighties for some viewers and there may not be much repeat value, however the hammy, self-aware performances embrace the clichés. Who knew chess was so dangerous and provocative?
The Passion of Darkly Noon
Injured Brendan Fraser (The Whale) intrudes upon the tempting Ashley Judd (Kiss the Girls) and her mute boyfriend Viggo Mortensen (Lord of the Rings) in a surreal, quaint wood for this 1995 psychological thriller. The idyllic springs, pretty outdoors, and hidden grotto are no match for tight tops, tiny dresses, and sweaty mellow. We don’t see the titular trauma but immediately sense the disturbed attraction and late blooming Oedipal complex. Despite the backwoods colloquialisms, kooky characters, and buttoned up repression of the perceived sinful, the naughty atmosphere rises with obsession and mea culpa harm. Religious stewing, evil bewitchment, fear mongering and slow burn symbolism add to the secrets, punishment, and bizarre visions. The brooding drama becomes increasingly unreliable as this purgatory cycle repeats with hellish flames and howling. Granted some attempted tender or scary scenes are dated and infantile. However, this character study on passion and sacrifice makes for an interesting, trippy morality play.
