Review: Tightrope

Clint Eastwood is macho detective Wes Block, a divorced father of two (Alison Eastwood and Jenny Beck) investigating some kinky serial homicides of hookers. He becomes involved with a feminist self-defence instructor named Beryl (Genevieve Bujold), but also has connections to several of the hookers. Intimate and rather lurid connections with them, in fact. Seems he and the killer have a thing or two in kinky common. Dan Hedaya plays a fellow cop, and Rebecca Perle plays an ice block-sucking hooker.

This 1984 kinky crime-thriller from writer-director Richard Tuggle (whose only other film credits were writing the terrific “Escape From Alcatraz”, and directing the Anthony Michael Hall flick “Out of Bounds”) is a sleazy bore with an uncomfortably cast Clint Eastwood at his most wooden in one of his worst films. Less “Dirty Harry” and more Z-grade 80s Charles Bronson thriller Cannon fodder, Eastwood is either unwilling or incapable of delivering the kind of 3-D performance required to sell the kinkier and more twisted elements in the script. That isn’t to suggest that the script is any good, just that this is the one element in the damn script that might’ve given it a little juice. Since the central mystery is a half-arsed bore and Genevieve Bujold’s wannabe strong feminist character written in equally half-arsed fashion (it’s every bit the cliché she claims not to be), the film ends up a complete bust. 1989’s “Sea of Love” would do this sort of thing a thousand times better. Bujold doesn’t exactly become a damsel in distress, but her character and Clint’s are worlds apart, and not in any ‘Opposites attract’ kind of way. It’s as unlikely as Bond bedding lesbian Pussy Galore in “Goldfinger” (one of the weakest elements of that popular film). It’s an incredibly awkward mix, with Bujold’s cold and mannered performance not setting the world on fire, either.

Nothing works, with producer-star Eastwood’s constantly furrowed brow likely leading to one giant migraine one would think (Perhaps with good reason. Apparently he wasn’t thrilled with Mr. Tuggle’s work and took over the directorial duties himself largely). His best scenes are with the kids, including daughter Alison. Unfortunately, those aren’t enough to come close to saving the film. Also on the debit list we have Rebecca Perle (Eastwood’s mistress at the time) and Regina Richardson giving laughably forced performances in what has to be one of the most embarrassingly square ‘sexy’ movies of all-time. No one has a clue what they’re doing, it’s all jelly wrestling, girls sucking on ice blocks, weird electro-shock hand devices, and other ridiculous clichés dreamed up by Tuggle. Whilst Eastwood and Perle may have had off-screen chemistry, the scene of them getting all oiled up and sexy is a truly vomitous experience to behold. As for the central mystery, the killer (loosely based on the man later monikered The Golden State Killer) is a non-entity for much of the film, and we don’t even get to see Eastwood do any great detective work to allow him to get to the realisation/solution in the end. He just kinda stumbles his way into it. Pathetic.

I like a good serial killer thriller, but this ain’t it, Skipper. A miscast Clint looks alternately bored and pissed off, in a performance and film that never works out how to sell the psychological bent to his character. Meanwhile, the mystery is bland an uninteresting (the killer is barely even a presence throughout), the performances forgettable, and the tone is all over the shop. Sleazy, off-putting and boring, this is a real dud.  

Rating: D-