Some films are so deliriously committed to their own absurdity that they transcend genre. Eyes of Laura Mars is one of those films—a supernatural neo-noir Giallo-adjacent thriller that crash-lands onto the New York fashion scene with all the grace of a starving model falling off six-inch heels. And yet, despite its melodramatic plot twists, psychic visions, and a cast of characters who behave like they’re in competition for Worst Decision-Maker Alive, the film is glorious. Stylish. Hypnotic. A fever dream dipped in glitter and blood.
It’s as if someone asked, “What if Vogue got possessed by a serial killer?”—and Irvin Kershner said, “I can make that work.”
And he absolutely did.
Faye Dunaway: Serving Face, Fear, and Absolute Icon Behavior
Faye Dunaway plays Laura Mars, a fashion photographer whose brand is erotic violence: glamorous women posed like murder victims. Critics hate it. Feminists hate it. Random people at cocktail parties probably hate it too. But her work sells books and clothes and absolutely oozes that late-70s mix of sleaze and sophistication.
Dunaway performs the role with wide-eyed intensity—her eyes alone do more acting than some entire casts. When Laura’s visions begin and she starts seeing murders from the killer’s point of view, those big, terrified eyes practically become supporting characters.
It’s not her fault she’s clairvoyant; it’s just the film’s way of punishing her for being too successful.
Tommy Lee Jones: The Detective Who Really Doesn’t Want to Be Here
Enter Tommy Lee Jones as Lieutenant John Neville—a man who looks permanently annoyed, even in the scenes where he’s supposed to be in love. His job is to solve murders, destroy Laura’s will to live, and occasionally kiss her with the emotional intensity of a DMV clerk stamping paperwork.
Neville begins as Laura’s critic. Then her interrogator. Then her romantic interest. Then—well, let’s just say if you’ve ever wanted to see Tommy Lee Jones slowly unravel while giving a monologue worthy of a Shakespearean villain having a mental breakdown in a Macy’s dressing room, this is the movie for you.
A Killer With a Flair for the Dramatic (and an Ice Pick)
The murders in this film are pure 1978 excess. Ice picks straight to the eyes. Fashion models dying in dramatic poses. Crime scenes that look suspiciously like Laura’s photo shoots except without the lighting budget.
Someone is killing Laura’s friends, coworkers, models, and anyone else unlucky enough to be near her. And because her artistic vision involves photographing women as if they’ve been violently murdered, the cops accuse her of inspiring the violence.
This is cinema’s classiest version of “play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”
New York City: The Only Place Where Psychic Visions Are Basically Normal
One of the film’s greatest joys is its depiction of late-70s New York. Everything is filthy, glamorous, dangerous, or all three. Fashion shoots happen on public streets. Photographers dress like disco detectives. Cabs nearly run over the cast every other scene. Models walk through crime scenes because scheduling is tight and homicide waits for no one.
And in the middle of it all, Laura Mars sees murders as they happen—through the killer’s eyes.
Literally.
She collapses dramatically at inopportune moments, clutching her head like she’s the patron saint of migraines. Everyone expresses concern, but not enough concern to actually leave the room.
This is New York. People get stabbed, robbed, or psychically assaulted every day. Keep it moving.
A Supporting Cast of Beautiful Weirdos
The supporting cast doesn’t simply fill space—they decorate it.
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Brad Dourif plays Tommy, the twitchy, mysterious driver with a criminal past, giving the exact performance you’d expect from Brad Dourif in the 1970s.
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Raul Julia is Laura’s unstable ex-husband, a writer who drinks enough to dissolve his liver and threatens suicide as casually as other people order takeout.
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René Auberjonois plays Donald, Laura’s agent, whose job is to look concerned, host parties, and be murdered in a vision at exactly the wrong time.
Everyone in this film is either suspicious, drunk, screaming, or dead.
Often some combination of the four.
Fashion, Murder, and the World’s Worst Timing
The sequence that encapsulates the film: Laura sees the murder of her models Lulu and Michelle while she’s in the darkroom developing their photos. She collapses, sobs, panics—and still has to attend the funerals because the show must go on.
Later she gets a call from her drunken ex-husband threatening suicide, and while trying to meet him, she has a vision of Donald being stabbed. She reacts so violently that she crashes her car. This is what happens when your supernatural powers don’t come with an off switch.
Everything that happens to Laura feels designed by someone who hates fashion photography and wants her to suffer.
Romance, but Make It Dysfunctional and Potentially Murderous
Neville grows close to Laura, which is a bad idea because:
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He’s investigating her,
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He doesn’t believe her psychic visions, and
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He has the emotional availability of a damp pothole.
Yet somehow, this becomes a romance. He even gives her a gun, which is one of cinema’s top 10 red flags.
Imagine your boyfriend saying:
“You keep predicting murders, so here’s a firearm. Let’s cuddle.”
The Reveal: Tommy Lee Jones Goes Full Theater Kid
The finale is a masterpiece of unhinged acting.
Neville arrives at Laura’s apartment, tossing out a convoluted explanation claiming Tommy was the killer. Laura, who is not an idiot, immediately notices how bad this lie is. She has a vision of her ex-husband being murdered. Neville’s explanations get stranger. Then he slips—using “I” instead of “he.”
Oops.
Turns out Neville is the killer, split into multiple personalities like a murderous discount version of Sybil. Tommy Lee Jones finishes the film by cycling through voices, moods, and facial expressions like a man auditioning for every role in Othello simultaneously.
He begs Laura to kill him, takes her hand, pulls the trigger with her fingers, and dies in her arms like a tragic soap opera villain who just remembered his agent has other clients.
It is absurd.
It is melodramatic.
It is magnificent.
Final Verdict: A Giallo-Infused Gem Worth Every Ridiculous Second
Eyes of Laura Mars is camp, glam, horror, noir, and psychodrama rolled into one spectacularly chaotic package. It’s what happens when Hollywood tries to make a Giallo, hires John Carpenter for the script, casts Faye Dunaway, gets Tommy Lee Jones to meltdown on camera, and sprinkles in disco fashion and supernatural visions.
Is it absurd? Yes.
Messy? Delightfully.
Stylish? More than any movie with this many corpses has a right to be.
Its cult following is earned. Its excesses are cherished. Its final twist is unhinged in all the right ways.
Watch it for Dunaway.
Watch it for Kershner’s direction.
Watch it for Tommy Lee Jones having the worst mental health day in cinema history.
But most of all—watch it because no one makes clairvoyant fashion thrillers like this anymore, and that’s a terrible tragedy.
