The tagline might as well have been: Two hitmen. One hostage. Zero fiber.
Cohen and Tate is a strange little film—grim, spare, and weirdly quiet, like someone left a noir thriller in the microwave too long. It stars Roy Scheider as Cohen, a professional killer so stoic he seems like he’s holding in a fart for 90 straight minutes. Opposite him is Adam Baldwin as Tate, a meathead with a bad temper and even worse instincts, who operates like a pit bull with a learner’s permit. Together they kidnap a kid and bicker across the state of Texas, one car ride away from a murder-suicide pact.
It’s not a great movie. But it’s not a terrible one either. It lives in that lumpy middle ground—the cinematic equivalent of a cold gas station hot dog. You don’t want it, but you’ve had worse.
Scheider, The Stoic King
Roy Scheider is one of those actors who always looks like he’s processing something terrible: a migraine, a dead marriage, a bout of food poisoning. In Jaws, it was fear. In The French Connection, suspicion. In Cohen and Tate, it’s probably chronic constipation, but he wears it like a badge of honor.
Scheider’s Cohen is cold, calculating, and almost inhumanly still. He’s the guy who does the job and gets out—no muss, no flair, just a bullet and a nod. But there’s something broken in him, something eroding behind those tired eyes. Maybe it’s the years, or maybe it’s Tate’s idiocy giving him an ulcer. Either way, he anchors the film with gravitas. You believe he’s a killer, not because he snarls or screams, but because he doesn’t need to.
Baldwin, The Loud Rookie
Adam Baldwin’s Tate is a different story. Where Cohen is ice, Tate is napalm—loud, unthinking, and violently insecure. He talks too much, shoots too fast, and listens too little. Basically, he’s the guy who orders his steak well done and thinks it’s a personality trait.
Baldwin leans hard into the angry young man act, and it mostly works. He’s the chaotic counterweight to Scheider’s stillness. You hate him within five minutes, which is probably the point. But the character is so one-note—rage, sneer, violence, repeat—that he eventually becomes exhausting. Like a dog barking at its own reflection for an hour and a half.
The Kid
Then there’s the kid. Played by Harley Cross, he’s the orphaned witness dragged along for the ride after seeing a mob killing. He’s meant to be the emotional center—the innocent heart that Cohen maybe-kinda-sorta remembers he once had.
But let’s be honest: most child actors in the ‘80s were there to get kidnapped, scream a lot, and be saved. This one’s no different. Cross tries his best, but he’s stuck between two grimacing monoliths and a script that gives him the emotional range of a potato.
The plot’s simple: Cohen and Tate are hired to retrieve the boy from witness protection and deliver him to their mob boss. What follows is a nightmarish road trip where trust erodes, tensions boil, and bullets fly.
If you’re expecting car chases, explosions, or witty banter—you’ll be disappointed. This isn’t Lethal Weapon. It’s more like Waiting for Godot with guns and worse lighting.
Most of the movie takes place in or around a car. It’s claustrophobic, quiet, and slow. That’s a choice—writer/director Eric Red wants atmosphere over action—but sometimes it feels like you’re just watching three miserable people carpool to hell.
Tone: Bleak with a Chance of Murder
Cohen and Tate wants to be a meditation on violence, age, and redemption. It flirts with big themes—fatherhood, morality, the cost of the life—but never really commits. The script drops hints, gives glances, suggests depth… then throws in another shooting or a growl from Tate to reset everything back to grim autopilot.
It’s a bleak film. Not emotionally devastating, just relentlessly grey. The lighting’s dim, the soundtrack is moody, and the pace is molasses on Ambien. You don’t watch Cohen and Tate for fun. You endure it like a bad lay or an airport security line.
But Damn, That Cast
Still, let’s give credit where it’s due: the cast carries the thing. Scheider’s dead-eyed precision, Baldwin’s meathead rage, and even Cross’s muted desperation—all of it almost lifts the film out of its dour trench.
It’s especially worth watching for Scheider, who plays every scene like he’s seconds away from either vomiting or breaking down in tears but keeps it all on lockdown. It’s the kind of performance that could’ve worked in a better film—a tighter, leaner, more psychologically rich thriller. Here, it’s like seeing a Michelin-star chef forced to cook in a Waffle House.
Final Verdict
So where does Cohen and Tate land? Somewhere in the middle. It’s not exciting enough to recommend, not awful enough to enjoy ironically. It’s like a sadistic tone poem about masculinity and death—stripped of style, fat, and joy.
Watch it if you’re in the mood for something slow, mean, and glum. Or if you just want to watch Roy Scheider emote from behind clenched teeth and a five o’clock shadow. He’s still the master of that “I might crap my pants but you’ll never know it” look. No one’s ever made constipation seem so dignified.
