It’s the Pictures that Got Small: Sharon Stone

Sharon Stone’s autobiography The Beauty of Living Twice was published in March, so I thought in lieu of actually reading it I’d review some of her movies instead.

I, like a lot of people, became a fan of Sharon Stone after seeing Basic Instinct in 1992, for reasons that have nothing to do with the infamous interrogation scene (as established in previous posts, vaginas really aren’t of much interest to me). Basic Instinct was an over-the-top, trashy thriller and Stone’s performance as Catherine Trammel was spot-on. 

I don’t think showing her cooch on film is what
Sharon Stone should be embarrassed about.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen Stone. She was in Total Recall the previous year, and in the 1980s I saw her in Action Jackson and the Steven Segal vehicle Above the Law (I never said I was proud), but Basic Instinct was the first time I noticed her. And having noticed her I was happy for her to be my new favorite movie star. Lord knows Stone was eager to be one. It’s a safe bet that even as far back as when she was doing guest spots on Remington Steele Stone spent her free time rehearsing her answers to reporters’ questions in the mirror, maybe even asking a girlfriend to hold a hairbrush up to her and pretend she’s Joan Rivers accosting Stone on the red carpet, just so she was ready when that fateful day finally came.

*In Stone’s defense, this was her co-star.

As fascinated as I was by Stone as an actress, however, some of what I read about her gave me pause, including her claiming she was “tricked” into flashing her bearded clam in Basic Instinct (um, sure); her assaulting a co-star*; and her acting like a diva on set—even before she became the face of the 1990s. I loved watching Sharon Stone the movie star, but I was finding it increasingly difficult to like Sharon Stone the person.

Ultimately what cooled my Sharon Stone fandom was her movies. I didn’t want to see her as an Old West gunslinger or as Richard Gere’s cold wife. I wanted to see her in more deadly vixen roles. Her performance in Casino revived my faith, and I was further encouraged when she starred in the campy remake of Diabolique the following year. But then she became more interested in being taken seriously as an actress, meaning we got Oscar® bait like Last Dance, the sci-fi snoozefest Sphere, and the heartwarming The Mighty. I was kind of tempted to check her out in the 1999 remake of Gloria—it sounds like a hoot—but I never got around to it [update: finally did and it’s not as terrible as I expected]. Then, well, I kind of forgot about her… until Basic Instinct 2 came out. As awful/awesome as that was, it didn’t so much rekindle my Sharon Stone fandom as make me wish she’d just accepted she was the Joan Collins of the 1990s instead of exerting so much energy trying to convince us she was, if not the next Meryl Streep, then at least next Jessica Lange.

So, About Those Movie Reviews…?

I thought I’d check out a few films Stone made after health problems, ageism, bad behavior and bad choices forced her off her A-list pedestal, films like WHEN A MAN FALLS (a.k.a. When a Man Falls in the Forest), a movie I didn’t know existed until it popped up on Tubi and Prime. The Prime synopsis describes this 2007 movie as “a psychological thriller sure to keep you mesmerized right up to the shocking end.” None of that is true, and neither is the thumbnail poster, which gives Stone star billing.

“Are you sure you don’t remember me? I won an Oscar®
for Ordinary People. What about Turk 182? No? Well, that’s fair.”

Writer-director Ryan Eslinger’s movie is actually a seriocomic indie drama about two men, Gary (Timothy Hutton) and Bill (Dylan Baker, looking like a live-action Matt Groening drawing), enduring bleak existences that they feel powerless to change. Gary is a genial alcoholic spinning his wheels in a dying marriage and an unfulfilling job; Bill, the night janitor at the building where Gary works, is so pathologically shy he flinches when people say hello to him. There’s a third, peripheral character, Gary’s friend Travis (Pruitt Taylor Vince), who’s life has been idling in grief mode since his wife was killed in a car wreck four years ago. Gary and Travis also went to high school with Bill, and it’s made clear that Bill was not their friend (“We picked on him all the time,” Travis recalls). 

The movie mostly flits back and forth between the Gary and Bill storylines. Gary is married to Karen (a de-glamorized Stone). “Karen… yeah, she’s Karen,” Gary sighs when Travis asks about his wife. He knows Karen’s depressed but neither Gary nor she seem interested in addressing their issues head on. Instead, she mopes and shoplifts; he shrugs and opens a fresh bottle of wine. 

Sharon Stone is sure her contract allows her to keep these gloves.

Meanwhile, in a seemingly different movie, Bill struggles with what to do about Sadie (Stacie Bono), the young mother living in the neighboring apartment whom he regularly hears being smacked around by her partner. He knows he should do something, but he can barely bring himself to greet her when he encounters her in the hall, let alone save her. When Bill’s not cringing at the sounds of violence coming from next door, he’s dreaming, sequences that are even more discordant with the movie’s overall tone. 

Dylan Baker dreams he’s in a more compelling film.

When a Man Falls is reminiscent of the little indie movies I rented from Blockbuster in the late 1980s – early ’90s that mixed understated drama and quirky comedy, brought to life by B-list talent. Except Eslinger not only fails to add all the necessary ingredients, he neglects to mix them properly. The drama never really goes anywhere, and the quirkiness sits on top like oil, never quite blending in with the rest of the movie. The Gary storyline is basically the equivalent of repeatedly asking your spouse what’s wrong and only getting a heavily sighed, “Nothing,” in response. Bill, on the other hand, seems to have wandered in from a different movie, albeit a more entertaining one. The only thing shocking about the ending, by the way, is how unfulfilling it is.

A face that says, “Fuck no, I’m not sorry.”

The acting makes When a Man Falls semi-watchable, with every actor getting at least one effective scene or moment. Stone gets two: In one, after she’s been busted for shoplifting, she faces her husband not with a look of shame but a defiant see-what-you-made-me-do smile. In another, when asked to sign a card being passed around the office to celebrate t co-worker’s engagement, she refuses (I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to do this in real life). These scenes made me wish that there was more to her role and much more to When a Man Falls.

Stone’s part in director Nigel Cole’s 2008 comedy $5 A DAY isn’t much bigger, but it’s a much better movie. Ritchie Flynn (Alessandro Nivola in a rare lead role), working as a health inspector until his boss learns of his prison past and fires him, is badgered by his estranged father Nat (Christopher Walken) to drive him from Atlantic City to Albuquerque, where Nat has signed up to participate in some experimental cancer treatment — or so Nat says. “You don’t have to dip into your pocket for a thing—zip, zilch, not even a crouton,” Nat assures his son.

Not that con artist Nat—who tips with gift cards for free phone minutes and helps himself to the free coffee offered to guests at a nearby casino—intends on dipping into his own pocket if he can help it. The car he’s secured for the trip is a PT Cruiser in a Sweet n’ Low wrap. (“Free wheels and gas for a year. All I have to do is drive a thousand miles a month!”), and he’s planned a route that includes an IHOP location every 300 miles, specifically so Nat can scam a free birthday meal using his many fake IDs. 

“Are you shitting me?” (Actual dialog)

So, yeah, it’s going to be a long drive for Ritchie, who resents his father after taking the fall for him so the old man, who already had priors, didn’t get slapped with a 10-year sentence. He also blames Nat’s bullshit for driving away his mother, who left Ritchie at a very young age. That Sweet n’ Low PT Cruiser isn’t helping matters, and neither is Nat’s insistence that they spend the night in a vacant house that’s up for sale. Nevertheless, when they’re surprised the next morning by a real estate agent showing the home to some potential buyers, Ritchie gamely plays along when Nat pretends they’re a couple. (“My partner and I are looking for something a little more feng shew-ish.”)

In Springfield, Missouri, Nat sweet talks his way into a banquet for a convention of pharmaceutical salesmen, then pretends to be a rep himself—a ruse that almost works until Nat gets a little too chummy with a salesman’s wife. Ritchie arrives just in time to talk a group of angry drug salesmen out of beating the shit out of his father by flashing his I.D. and claiming Nat was on an undercover assignment for the health department. It’s a funny scene, just don’t think too hard about enjoying a performance by Fox News BFF Dean Cain.

The fourth male lead of God’s Not Dead and the star of
The Deer Hunter, together at last!

While on the road Ritchie makes calls to his ex-girlfriend Maggie (Amanda Peet). She never picks up, but that doesn’t stop Ritchie from sharing stories about his life on her answering machine, since the main reason Maggie dumped him was he never shared anything about his past. Speaking of sharing, during a roadside piss stop, Nat tells his son he’s been impotent for several years, that not even Viagra can revive his wilted willie. Considering that if my father shared something similar I’d have to jab my car keys into my eardrums, Ritchie handles the news of his father’s E.D. with surprising nonchalance. Then again, he’s been to prison, so he probably has a higher threshold for what constitutes a breach of personal boundaries.

“You can’t get it up? Wish my cellmate had that problem.”

 

Ritchie caught in the path of a cougar.

Stone doesn’t appear until nearly an hour in, when the guys stop off in Amarillo, Texas, to visit Ritchie’s old babysitter, Dolores. An aging beauty with a spray-on tan and taste for sexy/tacky fashions (she greets them wearing a tiger print bikini and floral print kimono), Dolores is basically a parody of Stone’s Casino character, Ginger. Nat, knowing that Ritchie once had a crush on her, sees the visit as an opportunity for Ritchie’s fantasy to come true, and maybe help get his son’s mind off his breakup with Maggie. Dolores happily agrees to go out for drinks with Ritchie, but while she’s flirtatious it’s clear Nat is whom she pines for. She would’ve hooked up with Nat, she tells Ritchie, but “I’ve never met a man who’s so in love with his wife.” Nat didn’t drive Ritchie’s mother away, Dolores reveals; she left Nat for a car salesman she’d been having an affair with.

Dolores cures Nat’s impotence while
this scene causes ours.

Dolores’ word is called into question when it’s revealed she’s also a bit of scam artist, spilling a cup of coffee on herself and loudly claiming it was the waiter’s fault. The ploy should net her at least five grand, she later tells Ritchie. “I got my Mercedes with a trip in a supermarket last year.” Perhaps discovering Dolores is as duplicitous as his father is why Ritchie isn’t too broken up when his former babysitter bypasses inviting him into her bed and instead joins Nat in his (impotence cured!) And maybe Dolores is right, that Nat deserves a little love and affection, after all.

But Ritchie isn’t quite ready to forgive his father just yet, especially when he learns that Albuquerque is home to Kruger (Peter Coyote), the man Ritchie’s mother left Nat for. 

$5 a Day is the sort of movie that’s described as cute rather than funny. Yet, while its laughs are mild, it’s still an enjoyable film and worth checking out (it going straight-to-DVD likely had more to do with its marketability than its quality). Even when Walken is bad he’s fascinating to watch, but he’s very good here, clearly enjoying in his outsized role. Likewise, Stone appears to be having a blast spoofing her sexy image as Dolores. Playing the movie’s straight man, Nivola manages to hold his own, never being overshadowed by his larger-than-life co-stars (he’s also pretty easy on the eyes). 

Though this couldn't hold a candle to a 60+ Christopher
Walken, apparently.

It Gets Worse… and So Much Better

In 2012, Stone finally got to sink her teeth into a Bonafide starring role. She also got to bring audiences bigger laughs than $5 a Day delivered. Behold, the drama BORDER RUN (a.k.a. The Mule).

It’s bad, y’all. But it’s the fun kind of bad, and that’s owed largely to Sharon Stone.

Though I consider Stone more of a movie star than an actress, she can act. However, I think the quality of her performances are often contingent on the strength of her directors. Judging by Border Run, I’m not even sure director Gabriela Tagliavini was ever on set. Or maybe when Tagliavini saw Stone emerge from hair and makeup looking like she was just a black leather trench coat away from playing a vampire matriarch in the Underworld franchise, she was simply too stunned to question her lead actor’s—and executive producer’s — choices.

 

And, boy, does Stone make some choices in Border Run. She plays Sofie Talbert, a conservative journalist working for a Fox News-esque station in Arizona (“fair and balanced” is even worked into the banter between Sofie and her producer). In one of the movie’s early scenes, we see Sofie elbow her way through a crowd of other reporters to get to a Republican senator — who nevertheless looks like a Hillary Clinton/ Dianne Feinstein composite perfect for Newsmax anchors to hate ’bate to — and ask couple gotcha questions about her past votes revealing a softness on border security. Getting the senator’s stammering non-answer on tape, Sofie gives us a satisfied smirk then scurries back to the station. The only thing that would make this scene better is if the senator, or one of the other reporters Sofie elbowed out of the way, was heard muttering, “Fucking cunt.”

Stone nails the Megyn Kelly smirk.

Sofie’s career suddenly takes a backseat when she calls her brother, Aaron (Billy Zane), supposedly an SJW working in Mexico helping immigrants cross illegally into the U.S. And wouldn’t you know the moment he answers Sofie’s call he’s being shot at by Minute Men. The immigrants get away, but Aaron isn’t so lucky, getting captured by some mysterious figures who may or may not be Americans. All Sofie hears is gunfire before the line goes dead. Understandably, she’s concerned. Sofie immediately heads to Nogales, Mexico, to search for him.

Getting nowhere with the local police, Sofie heads to the border relief agency where Aaron works. After checking out the office’s bulletin board, which features several of Sofie’s news clippings, Sofie talks with Aaron’s co-worker, Roberto (Manolo Cardona). Over empty coffee mugs Roberto tries to dissuade Sofie from looking for Aaron, but when it’s clear that she’s going to anyway he agrees to take her to Aaron’s last known whereabouts, a small shack within shooting distance of the U.S. border. They find a cigar butt with a distinctive gold band and, hanging on the border fence, Aaron’s cap. Their investigation is interrupted by gunfire, however (the Minute Men don’t like Sharon’s hair, either) forcing the pair to retreat.

Sofie calls a number she plucked from the relief agency’s bulletin board, reaching Javier (Miguel Rodarte), a coyote. Javier won’t answer any of Sofie’s questions over the phone and tells her to meet him in Altar. Roberto warns Sofie against going there because Altar is super dangerous. (Like they’re safe where they’re at? Hello! You all were just dodging bullets.) After Sofie says she’s going to Altar, with or without him, Roberto agrees to take her there. 

It stands to reason that if you need to drink to watch Border
Run, you need to get fucking hammered to star in it.

Border Run teases a gratuitous sex scene that 
never happens.

But first, dinner and drinks! So far, Stone has portrayed Sofie as a no-nonsense, headstrong woman solely focused on her objectives, be they humiliating RINOs on tape or finding her missing brother. The moment she and Roberto stop at a cantina and she gets a few drinks in her, Sofie becomes a silly, head-rolling drunk. And possibly an easy lay. When she and Roberto take a few turns on the dance floor, they begin to make out, hot n’ heavy. Fuck Aaron, Sofie’s gonna get some!

Alas, Roberto gets cockblocked by a purse snatcher, the theft sobering up Sofie instantly. Now she’s all business and all about meeting up with Javier. Of course, Sofie and Roberto get separated in Altar, and in his absence Sofie almost gets raped in an alley, only to be saved by…Javier. Well, that was convenient.

Sofie joins one of Javier’s coyote missions, which will supposedly lead her to Aaron. Standing directly in her path, however, is Juanita (Giovanna Zacarías, fucking owning her role), the vicious head of a crime ring trafficking in humans and cocaine. Upon discovering “a shitty gringa” amongst her smuggled migrants, Juanita reacts as any vicious crime boss would, but Javier talks her out of killing Sofie. After all, Sofie has so many more hilarious facial expressions to share.

In Mexico, Sofie is just another “shitty gringa.”

Juanita inspects the more valuable merchandise.

Stone stoned.

Aaron is being held captive by Juanita’s gang, and he sees his sister being smacked around by Juanita from a window in the room where he’s chained up. Were this a different kind of movie (i.e., the good kind), the story might have had Aaron formulating a plan with Sofie to escape, using Javier — who seems to be allowed unsupervised access to Juanita’s prisoner — as a go-between. But that’s some action movie shit, and Border Run is still trying to be a gritty drama. So, Aaron remains chained up and powerless. Meanwhile, Sofie, just as powerless, watches as one of the smuggled migrants, a teen-aged girl, is roughly felt up by Juanita. We in the audience are powerless as we laugh hysterically watching Sofie succumb to the effects of some drugged water, with Stone giving a performance worthy of a 1968 classroom scare film about the dangers of marijuana. Within seconds of being drugged, Sofie rolls her eyes back into her skull and lolls her head from side to side, before quickly losing consciousness. Moments later, she comes to just long enough to realize she’s being tied to a bed, spread eagle, before blacking out again. She regains consciousness right before she’s raped. I think we can all agree that rape is a horrible crime, and therefore this scene should be horrific. Instead, Stone makes this the funniest scene of sexual assault since Pia Zadora was violated with a garden hose in The Lonely Lady.

Funniest rape scene or darkest episode of
The Muppet Show ever?

With Javier’s help Sofie manages to escape, but she and Javier are barely able to keep one step ahead from Juanita and her goons. Though they avoid capture by Juanita, they aren’t so lucky when they encounter U.S. Border Patrol. Javier is shot, and Sofie is taken into custody. Having met some real migrants and experienced firsthand the hell they endure to cross into the U.S. has caused Sofie to re-examine her hardline stance on border enforcement. Hence, she throws a hissy fit when being questioned by a Homeland Security officer (“I’m a TV reporter. I know my rights!”) When it’s suggested that if she doesn’t like America’s immigration laws she should contact her senator, Sofie angrily signs a release form, throws it at the officer and storms out. 

 Oscar® nominee Sharon Stone.

But Sofie’s saga isn’t over yet. She still has to find Aaron. Fortunately, Roberto reappears to help her. Sofie’s relieved, until she sees him smoking a cigar with a distinctive gold band.

Sadly, Sharon’s hair gets no redemption arc.

You can tell Border Run wants to be an important message drama about illegal immigration like El Norte, but it instead plays more like someone took a script for a 2000s-era Jean-Claude Van Damme direct-to-DVD actioner, changed the lead character’s gender and motivation, then replaced all the scenes of ass kicking with scenery chewing. It doesn’t work, but goddamn if it isn’t it fun to watch! The movie does have a kernel of a good idea, though: I’d so want to watch a reality show in which Fox News pundits are dropped in the middle of Honduras without their phones and are then tasked with having to make it back to the U.S. in one week with only a hundred Lempira, a few bottles of water, a couple Power Bars and a knife. The winner gets to suck Trump’s cock literally instead of metaphorically. Good luck, Sean!

Stone’s career has had something of a course correction in recent years. She got well-deserved positive notices for her performances in 2013’s Lovelace and the 2018 HBO series Mosaic, and she was perfectly cast as the eccentric heiress Lenore Osgood in Ryan Murphy’s American Horror Story retread Netflix series Ratched. If IMDb is to be believed, one of her upcoming projects is the comedy, The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife co-starring Bette Midler, which I’m sure will have a very professional and drama-free production should it ever happen [update: nope]. In the meantime, we have 30th anniversary edition of Basic Instinct to look forward to, which Stone says will be XXX-rated (😲). 

Oh, Sharon. I love you, but you’re so full of shit.

Her milkshake still brings the boys to the yard.

Lifetime: Where Men are Psychos and Women are Schizo

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God Damn the Poor

Edge of Doom’s less-than-captivating
poster is probably not the sole reason
the movie failed at the box office, but
I’m sure it didn’t help.

“I find it impossible to serve these people,” complains a priest at the opening of the noirish 1950 drama EDGE OF DOOM.

“Poor people are difficult to serve, George,” reminds Father Roth (Dana Andrews), the senior priest of Los Angeles’ St. Stephens’ Church.

Yes, ministry would be so much easier if it weren’t for all these fucking poors, who jeopardize their dead-end jobs by carrying illegal weapons and who refuse to call the police on their abusive husbands (that the church insists they remain wedded to). But, as long as they keep those tithes coming, the priests might as well try to save their wretched souls.

But Father Roth isn’t that cynical. Sometimes it’s the poors who bring the priests closer to God. He tells of one former parishioner who, after the church denied his alcoholic father a Christian burial because he committed suicide, was determined to keep his tithe money and wretched soul to himself.

Flashing back to what appears to be the previous week, we meet Martin Lynn (Farley Granger), working as a delivery driver for a flower shop, barely making enough to scrape by, let alone pay for his ailing mother’s medical care — or, at the very least, move her out to Arizona, which is healthier, somehow. And marrying his girlfriend Julie (Marla Powers) is out of the question, which, in 1950, means Martin is also suffering from a serious case of blue balls on top of crushing poverty. He asks his boss, Mr. Swanson (Houseley Stevenson) for a raise, reminding the old man he was promised one the previous year and, besides, Martin’s worked at the shop for four years. Mr. Swanson kicks the can down the road, telling Martin that the shop has had a lot of expenses and can’t afford any pay increases. Martin is then assured that he’ll always have a job as long as Mr. Swanson is alive. Translation: Be grateful you have a job. Now shut the fuck up.

Like a prayer.

“Who’s your daddy?”

Martin’s mother is still very devout, much to her son’s chagrin (“You’ve prayed enough, Mother.”) Her prayers don’t spare her the inevitable, however, leaving Martin is saddled with the expense of burying her. His skeevy neighbor, Mr. Craig (Paul Stewart), rants about how “it’s a rich world, but it hates to give.” Someone, somewhere, owes Martin money, Mr. Craig continues; all he has to do is have the nerve to collect. Martin takes the older man’s words to heart. His mother deserves a big funeral, and St. Stephens is going to pay for it.

The late Mrs. Lynn was usually counseled by St. Stephens’ beloved junior priest Father Roth, but it’s the grumpy Father Kirkman (Harold Vermilyea)—the same priest who refused Martin’s father a church funeral—who is available when Martin shows up at the rectory. We know the church isn’t going to pay for shit, no matter who Martin asks, but at least Father Roth would be more diplomatic in rejecting Martin’s demands. Father Kirkman’s first response, upon hearing that Martin’s mother has died, is to chastise the young man for not calling him sooner to administer her last rites (priorities). Furthermore, he can’t understand why Martin wants his mother to have such a lavish funeral (“Your mother was a simple woman.”)

Martin confronts Father Don’t-Give-a-Shit

Father Kirkman isn’t a total bastard, though, giving Martin cab fare to the funeral home. Martin, in turn, smashes Father Kirkman’s skull with a brass crucifix, killing him instantly. Oops.

Most tragic of all, no one said Father Kirkman’s last rites.

Martin barely avoids discovery by Father Roth and Father Kirkman’s misbehaving niece Rita (Joan Evans, who gets third billing even though she’s barely in the film), only to have police cars come speeding up beside him as he’s walking down the street. The cops aren’t coming for Martin but, rather, responding to a robbery — committed by Mr. Craig — at the nearby Galaxy Theatre. A mob of onlookers swarm the theater (Los Angelenos just loved gawking at robbery victims back in the day, apparently), practically carrying Martin to this other crime scene. A panicked Martin fights his way through the crowd, running to a nearby greasy spoon where he is the sole customer.

Martin’s been seen fleeing the Galaxy, which leads to two detectives flanking him in the diner and treating Martin like he’s been Driving While Black, though they keep their guns holstered (#WhitePrivilege). The cops ultimately take Martin to the station, suspecting him of committing the Galaxy Theatre robbery. He’s questioned by Det. Lt. Mandel (Robert Keith), who’s just as pleasant as the arresting officers. Martin not only fails to convince Det. Lt. Asshole that he’s innocent of the Galaxy hold-up, but he also inadvertently gets himself added to a list of potential suspects in Father Kirkman’s murder as well.

Martin is questioned by Det. Lt. Asshole.

Father Roth happens to stop by the station to vouch for one of his parishioners (“Lock him up for a week. Throw a good scare into him.”) Roth is a little more compassionate when he learns Martin is also in jail. “Martin is not a thief,” the priest tells Mandel, “and he wouldn’t go robbing theaters on the night his mother died.” (Hold on to your wallet on any other night, though!) Mandel releases Martin, but he stresses to Roth that it’s against his better judgment: “He bothers me.”

“Frankly, I’m glad the old bastard’s dead.”

Roth plans to take Martin to the rectory, but Martin insists on going home. But after Roth drops him off, Martin goes to Julie’s apartment. Though she means well, she offers little comfort (“It’s not the end of the world tonight, Martin.”) Martin returns to his apartment, just in time to see Mr. Craig being hauled away by police (“Every time something happens around here, they pull him in,” gripes Craig’s girlfriend Irene). Craig tells the cops he was nowhere near the Galaxy when it was robbed, but he’s actually been taken in as a suspect in the Father Kirkman murder.

Things continue to worsen for Martin. He loses his job, and the mortuary won’t extend him any credit (“Obviously, Mr. Lynn, you can’t afford your desires.”) He’s again picked up by the cops, this time as a suspect in the crime he actually committed. In an uncharacteristic bit of luck, the eyewitness who saw him leaving the rectory doesn’t pick him out of a lineup, instead identifying Mr. Craig as the man she saw.

It looks like Martin is going to get away with murder. Alas, you can take the boy out of the Catholic church, but you can’t take the Catholic church out of the boy. (Maybe I should re-phrase that...)

“Goddammit.”

More Secular than Faith-Based

Edge of Doom is based on a novel by Leo Brady, who, though a devout Roman Catholic, didn’t shy away from criticizing the church, and while liberties were taken with the film adaption (the prologue and epilogue scenes, as well as some narration, were added to give the story a more inspirational spin), it’s far from Catholic propaganda. Part of the reason so many current faith-based movies fail as films, aside from the fact that they are uniformly terrible, is they have no nuance, with all their stories boiling down to “secularism (and non-Christian religions) bad; evangelical Christianity good.” Faith isn’t examined, it’s presented. Edge of Doom’s approach is far more palatable. Religion is a part of the story, but it’s not THE story.

Edge of Doom is more secular than faith-based — you’ll hear more about Catholic church protocols than the Lord — and ultimately, it’s Martin’s story that makes the movie compelling viewing. Martin’s mother finds comfort in the church, the promise of a rewarding afterlife validating her mortal struggles. For Martin, the church is just one more institution that’s let him down. What he wants is a way out of the misery of poverty, not justifications for why he should suffer through it.

Farley Granger made Edge of Doom between starring in the film noir classics They Live by Night (1948) and Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train (1951), and while Doom isn’t as good as either of those movies, it’s still worth seeking out (it’s streaming on Prime as of this writing). Though the inspirational bits are hokey, and several supporting characters are a bit too stock (Mr. Craig, Mr. Swanson, Mandel), Granger, who, I’m obligated as a gay man to inform readers came out as bi in his 2007 memoirs Include Me Out, keeps Martin — and the movie — grounded in reality, resulting in a movie that’s just as relatable today as when it was first released.

Irene (Adele Jergens) crashes a scene to calm audiences
worried Edge of Doom was becoming a total sausage fest.

TL;DR: ‘Deadly Illusions’ Fucking Sucks

A generic poster for a generic title.

In the 2021 Netflix thriller DEADLY ILLUSIONS, the main character, Mary, may or may not be mentally ill, but she is, quite definitively, fucking stupid.

Deadly Illusions is pretty damn dumb itself, which I’d forgive were it not for the fact that the movie expects its audience to be as well. For starters, there’s its tortured set-up. Mary Morrison (least-talked about Sex in the City cast member Kristin Davis) is the author of a lurid mystery series — or rather, she was. When we meet her, she’s settled into the life of a rich, white stay-at-home mom and would like to remain such, which is why she’s incensed when her editor shows up, with his assistant Darlene (Abella Bala, who’s not in this movie nearly enough) in tow, to propose that she write another book. She immediately ushers the editor and his assistant out of her house like they’re reporters at a Trumpist’s town hall. The editor meekly apologizes and assures Mary that those royalty checks will keep coming. Darlene, however, isn’t so meek, at least when her boss is out of earshot.

“Bitch, please.”

“You’re Mary Morrison, best-selling author. Yet there was a time when Mary couldn’t get one publisher to read her work,” Darlene says, barely fighting back a smug smile. “So, she resorted to writing salacious stories and now she gets to sit back and rake in residuals without a single thought to how she got there or who put her there.” 

Mary tells Darlene she should be fired and storms back into her mausoleum-like home. Asking a writer to write — how dare they! (Even before this meeting one senses that Mary is the type of author who puts more effort into her book jacket glamor shot than writing, so this actually tracks.) She’s so pissed that she doesn’t even open the envelope containing her publisher’s written offer. 

It’s Mary’s husband Tom (Dermot Mulroney) who actually looks at the proposal, discovering her publisher is offering to advance her $2 million to crank out another book. “That’s more money up front than all your other books combined,” he points out in a so-why-aren’t-you-writing-you-silly-bitch? tone of voice. But Mary just wants everyone to sit down for dinner.

Later, the couple has some under-the-covers sex, during which Tom deflects Mary’s attempt to blow him, like no man ever. Afterwards, Tom tells Mary about how an investment he made six months ago went tits up, costing them half their life savings, which is why it would be really super helpful if she took that $2 mil advance. Though Mary is upset that Tom risked their money without consulting her, learning that they’re now only half as rich as she thought still is not enough to convince Mary to resume her writing career.

Now, I don’t think people should do things just because they are paid a lot of money, but it’s never made clear why, exactly, Mary’s reacting like her publisher asked her to clean the grease traps at her local Carl’s Jr. “You’ve never seen me when I write. I turn into a different person,” she tells her friend Elaine (Shanola Hampton, whose character outline in the script, I suspect, was simply “Mary’s Black friend”). But ultimately, it’s Elaine who convinces Mary to write the book, suggesting she get a sitter to help with her children while she works on it, and refers her friend to a chichi childcare agency. 

So, that was why Mary didn’t want to write, because she didn’t want anything to take time away from raising her children? I call bullshit. Her two kids — basically props trotted out whenever the movie needs to remind the audience Mary is a mom — are roughly 8 or 9 years old, so they’re away at school for a good chunk of the day. Also, Tom clearly wants Mary to write this fucking book so, presumably, he could shoulder a lot of the childcare duties in the evenings while Mary’s in her office cranking out another one of those salacious stories. They may need a sitter for the occasional date night, but they do not need one to free up Mary’s “busy” schedule. (Of doing what? Going to the gym with Elaine?)

But with no sitter we have no evil nanny movie, I guess, so cue the montage of Mary interviewing potential babysitters, all of whom are rejected for one reason or another (too religious, too germophobic, too self-absorbed). But, just when Mary’s about to give up hope, she interviews Grace (Greer Grammer, Kelsey’s daughter), a sweet young woman who loves to read (they bond over the works of Gene Stratton-Porter and Judy Blume), is excited by the prospect of working for an author, and, most importantly, she’s great with kids, as she demonstrates when she quiets an argument between Mary’s two whining brats. Why, she’s perfect! Too perfect, you might say. And fake as an Ellen DeGeneres apology. But Mary—who, remember, has written a series of mystery novels—fails to see through Grace’s obsequiousness and hires her on the spot. 

She seems stable.

Grace quickly becomes a fixture in the Morrison household, preparing meals and keeping the kids occupied while Mary and Tom go into the pantry to fuck. But while Grace was hired so Mary can concentrate on writing, she’s actually a distraction for the author, their relationship going from employer-employee to BFFs to, maybe, BFFs with benefits. It’s Grace who first takes things in a sexual direction, guiding Mary’s hand to her breast while they’re bra shopping. (Do women really team up in the dressing room to help each other into a Victoria’s Secret demi bra? Seems like a scenario that exists only in porn. And bad Netflix thrillers.) 

When bra shopping goes too far.

Mary’s shocked… and also intrigued. She’s so intrigued that she does some sexual teasing of her own, first by asking Grace to rub sunscreen on her back, then encouraging her cute babysitter to doff that Catholic school girl get-up and go skinny dipping with her.

Grace opts to wear a control-top bikini instead.

These flirtations ultimately cross over fully into Sapphic territory, with Mary getting fingerbanged by Grace while luxuriating in a petal-strewn bathtub. Or was she? Deadly Illusions presents many of Grace’s seductions as possibly only happening in Mary’s head, with Mary beginning to doubt her reality.

Grace gives Mary a helping hand.

Of course, Grace isn’t restricting her flirtations to Mary. After dropping the kids off at school Tom invites the kids’ sitter to a brunch of quiche and Bloody Marys, where he gets around to asking Grace’s age. “How old do you think I am?” she asks coquettishly. Tom says a week ago he’d guess she was 20, but today, 40, which, in reality, would be when Grace would say fuck you and just go back to messing around with Mary as the only time you can get away with guessing a woman’s age as 40 is when the woman in question is obviously in her 60s. Instead, Grace stretches, causing her midriff-baring sweater to ride up, threatening to show Tom one of the sexy bras his wife helped her pick out. 

Actually, this is what I think lunch with Madonna looks like.

Poseur.

After a cutaway to Mary savoring a cigar (just… no), we see Tom and Grace bopping down the highway at night. What were they doing all day? Who picked up the kids? Mary’s not concerned, so I guess we shouldn’t be, either.

So, that’s the first hour, with not much happening beyond a bitchy confrontation with Darlene, the sassy assistant, and a few non-explicit sex scenes. Do things get more thriller-y in the second half? Yeah, but also a lot dumber.

The story jumps ahead three weeks, when Mary and Grace go on a bike ride down to a river, where they have a picnic and start to make out, Mary stopping things before Grace has a chance to burrow under her skirt. When they return to their bikes they discover their tires have been slashed. It’s nighttime when they get home, where they’re greeted by Tom and Elaine, who’s dropped by to share her suspicions — once she and Mary are away from Tom — about Tom is schtupping the help. Mary is indignant and accuses Elaine of having the hots for Tom.

Girl, don’t even.

The next night, Grace gives Mary a taste of the chili she’s preparing, then helps herself to a taste of Mary’s pussy. Things end abruptly when Tom walks into the room, though he’s so clueless I bet Grace could finish the job without him noticing. Mary is suddenly woozy (possibly roofied) and Tom has to help her to bed. Minutes later Mary comes to, hears the unmistakable sounds of people in the throes of passion and gets up to investigate. To her horror she discovers Tom, now blindfolded, going down on Grace in the kitchen (this movie really champions cunnilingus and sex in kitchens). Mary collapses, and as the screen fades to black we hear Grace tell Tom not to worry, his wife won’t remember any of this. 

When pillows attack.

But then, a few minutes later, Grace is once again getting out of bed and joining the family for that chili dinner, saying she had the most disturbing dream. And it does seem like it was a dream. To suggest that it wasn’t is to suggest that the kids were also roofied to allow time for Tom to go clam diving. It doesn’t matter, because Mary goes batshit at the table like this dream (or “dream”?) did happen (“You and my husband were fucking! Over there, on the counter!”) Later, Mary goes on a rant about how she’s been putting all her energy and talent into her family and all she gets is “fucking screwed!” I so wanted Tom to ask Mary by whom does she feel betrayed, him or Grace, but all he does is apologize to Mary like she’s an angry caller on a customer service line.

Mary then finds out that (gasp!) Grace just might not be who she says she is. She investigates further, starting with finding out Grace’s last name. Seriously. Grace has been working for the family for roughly two months and neither Mary nor Tom bothered ask her last name? And how does Mary go about learning this crucial information? Maybe ask Grace directly. Or, how about handing her a W2 to fill out? No, Mary goes to the library to see if the librarian will give it up. “She’s your best friend and you don’t even know her last name?” asks the librarian/audience stand-in, a rare moment of self-awareness on the movie’s part.

Then there’s a murder and all evidence points to Mary as the prime suspect. With only 24 minutes left in the movie, Mary will have to act fast if she’s to clear her name and find the real (or “real”) killer. Good thing for her the cops at the station don’t keep too close an eye on their murder suspects.

Potential as an R-Rated Lifetime Movie Squandered

So much of Deadly Illusions’ story plays out as if writer-director Anna Elizabeth James was selecting tropes like they’re dishes on a buffet line: “Let’s see, I’ll start with The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, with a generous side of Single White Female and just a dallop of Basic Instinct—but hold the cooch flashing, please. Ooooh, and how about a helping of Identity? And let’s ladle on some of that old-fashioned Gaslight gravy.” This wouldn’t be so bad if these tropes were used in an interesting way, but James struggles to use them competently. She frequently loses her place in her own script, introducing some potentially interesting story elements (alluding to Mary’s dark past; rifts in the Morrison marriage) only to forget them a scene later, then summon them in the last act when they’re useful to the plot. 

The people most short-changed by Deadly Illusions, second only to the audience, are the movie’s cast. Kristin Davis seems game for Mary’s many mood swings, but I have to think that even she wondered at some point if her character was A.I.-generated. Greer Grammer fares a little better in that Grace is a bit a more of a fully realized, if poorly written, character. Elaine has little character beyond being The Best Friend, but Shanola Hampton doesn’t let that stop her from injecting a little personality into her role. On the other end of the spectrum, Dermot Mulroney is barely present in the part of The Husband (at one point he clearly calls Grace Chris). Then again, the role gives him little reason to be.

Mulroney does show some skin, so if you like your men to
have some mileage on them, enjoy. Lookin’ good, Dermot!

Only Abella Bala seems to realize this movie’s potential as an R-rated Lifetime movie, making me wish that Deadly Illusions was about an editor’s assistant out to sabotage a best-selling author’s career rather than an evil nanny story. 

James’ previous films have been family friendly, equestrian-focused fare like Destined to Ride. Deadly Illusions is her first produced thriller, and if it’s anything to go by perhaps James should just stick to stories about girls and their horses. The rest of you should just avoid Deadly Illusions, which isn’t even worth a hate watch.