Lake Consequence is one of those late-night cable films that tried to pass itself off as art but forgot to put pants on. It struts around like it’s some kind of deep, brooding, erotic meditation on desire and repression, but let’s be honest—this isn’t Bergman. It’s barely Zalman King. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a guy in a ponytail whispering “I’m a sensualist” at a dive bar while sliding a Polaroid across the table.
We start with Irene, a bored, uptight housewife (played by Joan Severance, clearly slumming it), who accidentally hitches a ride in a hot tub trailer. Yes, you read that correctly—a hot tub trailer. This sets the tone early: dumb as hell, but dressed in silk and candles. She’s whisked away by Billy Zane, playing a shirtless free spirit with a ponytail, a saxophone soundtrack, and the emotional depth of a cologne ad. He spouts nonsense about passion and freedom like he read half a poetry book once and thought it made him a prophet.
Irene, naturally, falls under his spell because she’s starved for excitement—and because this movie was written by a guy who thinks women’s lib is best expressed through prolonged shower scenes. And so begins a journey of sexual awakeningthat involves bad dialogue, lakeside frolicking, and enough soft-focus lens flares to give you a migraine. Somewhere along the way, Billy’s ex-girlfriend shows up to scowl and sulk, but mostly just to remind us that everyone in this movie has the emotional intelligence of a broken lava lamp.
There’s a lot of vague talk about repression, society, and breaking free, but none of it means anything. It’s just an excuse to string together slow-mo sex scenes on hardwood floors and moonlit docks, intercut with shots of people staring out windows like they’re waiting for the plot to show up. It doesn’t.
The acting? Zane looks like he wandered off a Levi’s commercial and never came back. Severance, who’s done way better with way worse material, tries her best, but she’s fighting a script that treats her like a human-shaped mood board. The dialogue is filled with pseudo-philosophical babble like:
“Maybe what you fear… is what you need.”
Sure. And maybe what I need is a refund.
The direction, courtesy of Rafael Eisenman (whose work screams “I wanted to direct music videos but got lost on the way to MTV”), is all mist and mirrors. He loves slow pans, silhouetted sex, and that ever-present saxophone moan that sounds like someone trying to seduce a foghorn.
By the third act, when the consequences of this lakeside boinking are supposed to kick in, you’re too numb from the boredom to care. There’s some crying, some leaving, some melodrama that thinks it’s profound—but really, it’s just reheated Red Shoe Diaries leftovers with the nutritional value of a marshmallow dipped in body oil.
Final Verdict:
Lake Consequence is a smutty, soggy mess trying to wear an art house beret. It’s all soft-core and no spine, a film that confuses nudity with depth and wind chimes with storytelling. Watch it only if your remote’s broken and you’re already dead inside.
1 out of 5 stars.
One star for the unintentional comedy of Billy Zane trying to look wise while shirtless on a dock. The rest sinks to the bottom like a soggy paperback novel soaked in bad decisions.
