If Criminal Passion were a cocktail, it would be one part bad erotica, one part murder mystery, and five parts spilled boxed wine. The kind of movie where everyone whispers like they’re in a library, but moans like they’re in a brothel. It wants to be Basic Instinct, but it ends up more like Mediocre Impulse Control.
We open with Joan Severance—again, forced to carry a film like Atlas with a migraine—playing Melody, a no-nonsense homicide detective. You know she’s tough because she wears a trench coat and stares meaningfully at crime scenes while the camera lovingly pans over blood spatters and rotary phones. She’s the kind of detective who eats takeout straight from the carton and sleeps with her badge on the nightstand, as if it might try to sneak away in the middle of the night.
Enter Andrew, the smarmy, silk-shirt-wearing son of a powerful senator, played by John Allen Nelson, who also co-wrote this mess—because if you’re gonna kill a movie, you might as well stab it from both sides. He’s got that ‘90s yuppie villain energy: slick hair, intense eyes, and a face you want to slap with a subpoena. Oh, and did we mention he’s the prime suspect in a series of grisly sex murders? Because what’s more seductive than a guy who might be carving up women like rotisserie chickens?
Naturally, Melody—trained homicide detective and presumably a woman with at least a couple working brain cells—throws professionalism out the window and starts up a red-hot affair with the maybe-killer. Because nothing says “I take my job seriously” like hopping into bed with a guy who owns multiple knives and lives in a mood-lit lair with questionable art.
The sex scenes are, predictably, shot with all the subtlety of a perfume commercial directed by a guy who just discovered slow motion. Bodies writhe, candles flicker, saxophones cry out in despair. And in between all the wriggling and sighing, people keep dying. But not fast enough. Certainly not the movie.
The actual mystery unfolds like a game of Clue played by lobotomized mannequins. There’s a twist, of course, because thrillers from this era are legally required to have at least one, but it’s telegraphed so early and so clumsily that you half-expect the boom mic to drop into frame and whisper, “Yeah, it’s him.”
Tony Denison pops in as Melody’s partner, looking permanently annoyed to be in this film—possibly because he read the script. His role is mostly to mutter warnings like, “You’re getting too close, Mel,” and then stare at evidence with the dead-eyed expression of a man rethinking his SAG membership.
The cinematography tries its best to look moody and noir-ish, but ends up feeling like a cheap shampoo commercial got hijacked by an episode of Silk Stalkings. The lighting is either “sex dungeon” or “gas station bathroom.” And the dialogue? A steady stream of noir-lite nonsense like:
“Desire is the most dangerous weapon.”
“So is trusting your libido more than forensics, you absolute dolt,” I screamed at the screen, alone, with whiskey.
By the end, when the killer is revealed (spoiler: it’s exactly who you thought it was when he first appeared and smirked ominously), the film tries to crank up the tension with a final confrontation that plays out like a rejected Melrose Placecliffhanger. There’s blood, tears, and yet more philosophical nonsense about passion, crime, and how sometimes love cuts the deepest. Or maybe that was just the cheese grater I used on my brain during the third act.
Final Verdict:
Criminal Passion is neither criminally clever nor passionately watchable. It’s a limp, overlit slog through thriller clichés and softcore snoozing, with Joan Severance once again doing all the heavy lifting while surrounded by men who think whispering makes them mysterious.
1 out of 5 stars.
One star for Joan, because she’s still magnetic even when handcuffed to this disaster. The rest? Guilty of cinematic loitering with intent to bore. Lock it up and throw away the key.
