COLOR OF NIGHT
A film review by Scott Renshaw
Copyright 1994 Scott Renshaw
Starring: Bruce Willis, Jane March, Ruben Blades, Lesley Ann Warren, Brad Dourif, Scott Bakula. Screenplay: Matthew Chapman and Billy Ray. Director: Richard Rush.
Director Richard Rush made his last film in 1980, a sly thriller called THE STUNT MAN which was one of the year's critical favorites. He waited nearly fifteen years before making his next film, COLOR OF NIGHT. And it looks like he may have to wait another fifteen years before anyone *lets* him direct again. COLOR OF NIGHT is just awful in every conceivable way, lurching between tedium and wretched excess for an excruciating two hours, and giving Bruce Willis his second consecutive appearance in a first-degree bomb (following NORTH).
Willis plays Bill Capa, a New York psychologist who is traumatized when one of his patients commits suicide during a session. He decides to take a vacation in Los Angeles, and visits old college buddy Bob Moore (Scott Bakula), himself a successful therapist. When Moore is murdered, evidence suggests someone in his Monday night therapy group, which Capa takes over. Soon, however, it appears that Capa may also be the target of intended foul play. He is also the target of attentions from a young woman named Rose (Jane March) who seems to have a number of secrets.
If it were not for my personal code of ethics, I would reveal every plot twist in COLOR OF NIGHT, since they are probably the only thing which will keep anyone watching until the bitter end. On the other hand, I'm not even sure it's necessary. COLOR OF NIGHT is so sledgehammer-subtle that it would surprise me if anyone couldn't figure out the identity of the killer in the first scene in which the individual appears. The attempts to turn the other characters into suspects are so inept that I began to suspect that screenwriters Matthew Chapman and Billy Ray were like those deeply troubled criminals who *want* everyone to know exactly who did it. Sadly, it's just one of the many ways they treat the audience like it's made up of morons. In one sequence, the killer uses a car to push another car off the top level of a parking garage, endowed with a supernatural foreknowledge of exactly where Willis is going to be walking below. Then there are more basic matters of stupidity, such as the condition from which the film takes its title, Willis' inability to see red after the death of his patient. It has absolutely no bearing on the story, is sloppily presented through occasional perspective shots, and is just another example of the offensively simplistic psychology employed by the screenwriters.
The main question is whether the true criminals are the writers or the actors. With so much scenery chewing going on, they must have been able to save a fortune on catering. But who was the most abysmal? Ruben Blades as the loose cannon detective who appears to be in dire need of therapy himself? Lesley Ann Warren as the kleptomaniac/sexaholic refugee from a Tennessee Williams play? Brad Dourif (best-unknown as the voice of Chucky in the CHILD'S PLAY films) as the obsessive-compulsive lawyer doing his impression of Dustin Hoffman in RAIN MAN ("Yeah, definitely 58 books, definitely 58")? COLOR OF NIGHT may have set back the cause of group therapy 30 years with this collection of twitchy banshees. And watching over them all is the ever-smirking Willis, who even when he is supposed to be radiating understanding looks like he's about to put on a pair of shades and break into the Seagram's Wine Cooler jingle. The whole bunch should have their SAG privileges suspended.
COLOR OF NIGHT was the subject of a much-publicized battle with the MPAA over explicit sex scenes which threatened to earn it an NC-17 rating, but don't be duped. COLOR OF NIGHT is about as sexy as a lump of cold mashed potatoes, and less aesthetically pleasing. It's also extremely violent, particularly in the last fifteen minutes which includes some intensely unpleasant business with a nail gun. In 1980 Richard Rush clearly knew how to make a good movie. I guess directing isn't exactly like riding a bike. Or in this case, like driving a garbage truck.
On the Renshaw scale of 0 to 10 traumas: 0.
-- Scott Renshaw Stanford University Office of the General Counsel
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