Introduction: “True Crime” by Way of a Student Film Gone Wrong
Serial killers and cinema go together like popcorn and butter. From Psycho to Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, audiences can’t resist the grim spectacle of murder and madness splattered on screen. Then there’s Cold Light of Day—a movie so drab, so lifeless, and so catastrophically boring that even the corpses in it seem like they’re looking for the exit.
Directed by 21-year-old Fhiona Louise, who set some kind of record for being the youngest woman to helm a feature at the time, this British art-house horror-drama wants to be a chilling portrait of Dennis Nilsen–style killings. Instead, it feels like a government-funded PSA warning us about the dangers of bad plumbing and worse editing.
Plot: When Murder Meets the Snooze Button
The story follows Jordan March (Bob Flag), a thinly veiled stand-in for Dennis Nilsen, as he lures young men into his flat, murders them, and then keeps their corpses around for a bit of company. Sounds lurid, right? Not here. This film manages to make necrophilia and corpse-dismemberment as riveting as filing your taxes.
The murders are told in flashbacks as Jordan recounts them to Inspector Simmons, which means we already know how it ends—he’s caught. So instead of tension, we’re treated to a series of slow, awkward murders intercut with shots of Jordan looking constipated.
His first victim is Joe, an art student who moves in and quickly annoys him. After some bath-time voyeurism and petty squabbling, Jordan strangles Joe and then climbs on top of him in what can only be described as a necrophiliac cuddle session. The movie presents this with all the erotic energy of two mannequins colliding in a department store display.
Subsequent victims include a homeless man who just wanted a cigarette (big mistake) and a junkie punk who overdoses before Jordan even gets the chance to strangle him properly. Imagine the anticlimax of planning a murder only to have your victim keel over from drugs first—it’s like ordering a steak and having the cow die of old age in front of you.
Of course, Jordan disposes of the bodies in the most British way possible: by flushing human flesh down the loo. This leads to the film’s most unintentionally hilarious climax—an overworked plumber discovering meat clogging the pipes like last week’s leftover stew. Forget horror—this is Mr. Bean Does Forensics.
Performances: From Stone-Faced to Stoned
Bob Flag, best known as Big Brother’s face in 1984, plays Jordan March with all the charisma of a damp teabag. His version of “tormented serial killer” mostly consists of staring blankly, sighing heavily, and occasionally touching a corpse like he’s considering buying it at a secondhand shop.
Martin Byrne-Quinn as Joe is perhaps the film’s only spark of life, but even he gets strangled before he can really leave an impression. Andrew Edmans as Stephen, the junkie, gives us a death scene so lethargic it feels less like heroin and more like NyQuil.
The supporting cast—landlords, prostitutes, inspectors—float in and out of scenes like confused pedestrians who accidentally wandered onto the set. Geoffrey Greenhill as Inspector Simmons is tasked with asking questions but seems perpetually confused, as if he can’t believe he signed up for this either.
Horror Elements: Or, The Lack Thereof
This is a “horror” film that seems allergic to actual horror. The killings are staged with the urgency of someone folding laundry. The necrophilia is suggested but shot so dully that it feels less taboo and more like Jordan misplaced his pillow. Even the gore—when it arrives in the form of chopped-up flesh or boiled heads—looks like leftovers from a butcher shop tossed in front of the camera.
The atmosphere is drab, shot in muted tones that make 1970s London look like a concrete mausoleum. Which, I suppose, fits the theme, but after ninety minutes of beige interiors and grey exteriors, you’d kill for a splash of color—even if it’s just a nice set of curtains.
Themes: Subtext That Should’ve Stayed Sub
The film desperately wants to say something profound about loneliness, repression, and the banality of evil. Instead, it says, “Serial killers are sad, and also plumbing is important.” Jordan has flashbacks to his grandfather’s death, which I assume are supposed to explain his homicidal tendencies. Instead, they play like filler scenes from a bad student project, complete with melodramatic piano tinkling.
There’s also a weird obsession with cafés and coffee, as if the real moral is “Don’t let strangers buy you a cappuccino—they’ll strangle you by morning.”
Pacing: Like Watching Paint Dry, Then Watching the Paint Get Arrested
If there’s one crime Cold Light of Day commits more egregious than murder, it’s its assault on pacing. Every scene drags on long past its expiration date. Jordan sits. Jordan stares. Jordan flushes flesh down the toilet. Repeat.
The interrogations are endless, the flashbacks interminable, and the murders so stretched out they feel like bad improv exercises. This is less a thriller and more a slow descent into cinematic Stockholm Syndrome. By the end, you’re not horrified—you’re just grateful it’s finally over.
Production Values: Pound-Shop Grit
Made for the price of a used VCR, the film looks exactly like what it is: a low-budget art-school project that somehow got distributed. The lighting is inconsistent, the sound is murky, and the editing is so choppy it feels like the reels were cut by Jordan himself during one of his dismemberment binges.
Fhiona Louise deserves credit for ambition—she was young, she wanted to make a statement, and she actually finished a film. But ambition doesn’t equal execution. What we get is a dour, muddled, and utterly joyless slog that proves sometimes pioneering youth just means you’re inexperienced enough to think this was a good idea.
Final Verdict: A Killer Without a Pulse
Cold Light of Day wants to be a haunting character study in the vein of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. Instead, it’s the cinematic equivalent of staring at wallpaper until your soul leaves your body.
There’s no suspense, no terror, and no real insight into the killer’s psyche. Just a lot of sitting, staring, and flushing body parts until the police finally step in to save the audience from another act.
The only real horror here is realizing that you’ve wasted an evening watching a film that makes necrophilia and serial murder feel less horrifying than mildly inconvenient plumbing issues. Dennis Nilsen may have been terrifying in real life, but on screen in Cold Light of Day, he’s reduced to a man with bad taste in roommates and even worse timing.
If this is the “cold light of day,” I’d rather stay in the dark.
