“Leo Rossi, Round Four: The Sweatpants Saga Continues”
By this point, it’s not even a franchise—it’s a cry for help.
Relentless IV: Ashes to Ashes is the cinematic equivalent of a gas station microwave burrito at 2 a.m. You don’t want it. Nobody recommends it. But there it is, steaming in the dark, daring you to hit “play.” And if you’re brave—or foolish—enough to take that dare, you’ll find Leo Rossi once again slumping his way through the streets of Los Angeles like a cop who lost his badge and his will to live somewhere around Relentless II.
Leo Rossi plays Detective Sam Dietz, back again for reasons nobody can truly explain. If he was tired in Part II and dead-eyed in Part III, then in Part IV he’s become pure cinematic entropy. The man looks like he’s running on black coffee, disappointment, and maybe a Hostess cupcake he found under the seat of his car. He mumbles. He squints. He occasionally pulls out his gun and waves it around like he forgot whether it’s a prop or a real cry for help.
At this point, Dietz isn’t so much solving crimes as sleepwalking through them. The central mystery? A killer who leaves poetic quotes at his murder scenes and has a fetish for candles. That’s it. That’s your hook. Somewhere, someone thought, “You know what serial killers love? Ambience.” So now we’re stuck with an eyeliner-wearing murderer who kills people and then lights candles like he’s prepping for a séance with his therapist.
The film thinks it’s moody. Artistic, even. What it actually is? Lazy. There are scenes where nothing happens but shadows moving across beige wallpaper while saxophone music wheezes in the background like a dying jazz cat. The editing is choppy. The lighting is cheap. The whole thing looks like it was shot in a hotel conference room and someone’s apartment during a three-day weekend.
And then—out of nowhere—enter Famke Janssen.
Yes, that Famke Janssen. Before GoldenEye. Before X-Men. Before she figured out how to say “no” to scripts like this one.
She plays Dr. Sara Lee—no, not the frozen cake, but a psychiatrist roped into the investigation because someone in the 1990s decided all serial killers needed to be psychologically profiled by a sexy brunette. Janssen, to her credit, actually tries. She gives the film its only moments of genuine charisma, gliding through the carnage like someone who knows she’s destined for better things. And she was. But here, she’s trapped in a B-movie sandbox while Rossi grumbles like your uncle after two beers and a failed lawn mower start.
Their chemistry? Picture a damp sponge and a diamond. She sparkles. He leaks exhaustion.
As for the villain—he’s barely worth naming. An aspiring poet with mommy issues and a wardrobe straight out of a low-rent goth club. He’s supposed to be terrifying. He’s not. He’s a Dollar Store Buffalo Bill with less menace and more pout. He lights candles like he’s setting the mood for a breakup and spouts Nietzsche like he just skimmed the back of the book jacket.
The kills are uninspired. Bloodless. Lacking even the basic satisfaction of a solid slasher payoff. And when a film can’t even get its murder scenes right, what are we doing here? You’re better off watching Unsolved Mysteries reruns. At least Robert Stack knew how to deliver dread without whispering like he’s nursing a hangover.
And let’s talk about the direction, or the ghost of it. Oley Sassone helms this one, a name destined for late-night cable anonymity. The camera stumbles from scene to scene like a drunk with a camcorder, never quite sure where to land or why we’re supposed to care. Scenes linger too long, cut too short, or skip over crucial details entirely. It’s like someone edited the film with a butter knife.
Dialogue? Wooden. Often hilariously so. At one point, Rossi stares into the middle distance and grumbles something about justice like he just watched Serpico on mute and thought, “Yeah, I can do that.” Spoiler alert: he can’t.
At least in the earlier Relentless films, there was some sense of direction—some flicker of tension or character development. But by Part IV, we’ve reached that inevitable franchise decay. It’s the point where sequels exist not because there’s a story left to tell, but because the sets haven’t been torn down yet and Leo Rossi hasn’t officially retired.
That said—Famke Janssen. Let’s circle back.
She’s the only reason to watch this film. She glides through the nonsense with grace, like a figure skater who accidentally took the wrong turn and ended up performing at a demolition derby. Her performance hints at the A-list future she was destined for—cool, controlled, intelligent. She deserves better than this movie. Frankly, you do too.
By the time the credits roll, you’ll feel the numbness settle in. Not from the horror. Not from the drama. Just from the sheer mediocrity. Relentless IV is a movie that dares you to stay awake and punishes you for doing so.
Final Verdict:
Relentless IV: Ashes to Ashes is cinematic sludge. A low-budget slog through clichés and candle wax, starring a lead who’s emotionally checked out and a villain who couldn’t scare a houseplant. The pacing is glacial, the atmosphere is stale, and the plot is as thin as Leo Rossi’s patience for the material.
Famke Janssen shines, but even she can’t salvage this funeral dirge of a thriller. Watch it if you’re a masochist, a completist, or just curious how far a franchise can sink before it stops making direct-to-video sequels.
Spoiler alert: they stopped here.
Thank God.
