Every so often, a film comes along that desperately wants to be Seven. You know the drill: grim detectives, Biblical references, body parts missing, lots of rain, lots of shouting, and a killer who thinks he’s an artist. Resurrection (1999), directed by Russell Mulcahy, starring Christopher Lambert and his accent (which still can’t decide where it’s from), is one of those movies. Unfortunately, it doesn’t ascend to Seven’s gritty heights—it stumbles straight into the bargain-bin abyss, clutching a sawed-off arm and muttering scripture like a drunk priest at karaoke night.
The Setup: Jesus, But Make It Slasher
Christopher Lambert plays Detective John Prudhomme (yes, really), a Cajun cop transferred to Chicago. He’s got a tragic past, a haunted stare, and dialogue that sounds like it was translated from French to English by a Ouija board. Prudhomme and his partner Hollinsworth investigate a series of murders where victims are dismembered piece by piece. Arms, legs, a head—like some deranged butcher working on the world’s worst Mr. Potato Head.
The killer leaves Bible verses in Roman numerals, and Lambert quickly deduces that the madman is reconstructing the “Body of Christ” using his victims. Because apparently, Jesus’ resurrection needs a Frankenstein reboot. This is either a theological crisis or the dumbest arts-and-crafts project ever.
Lambert: The Highlander of Ham
Christopher Lambert is an odd actor. Sometimes he’s brilliant (Highlander, sort of). Sometimes he looks like he’s wandered in from another dimension where emotions don’t exist. Here, he’s stuck in grim-cop mode, muttering lines like, “He’s building Christ” with the same passion you’d use to order a sandwich. His Cajun accent pops up now and then like a jack-in-the-box no one wanted.
Every scene is Lambert glowering, Lambert yelling, Lambert whispering, Lambert holding his gun sideways like he’s trying to remember which end is which. He’s supposed to be the haunted detective who cracks the case. Instead, he’s the guy you hope the killer gets to next just to spice things up.
The Partner: Hollinsworth, Human Punching Bag
Leland Orser plays Hollinsworth, Prudhomme’s partner. He’s excitable, twitchy, and spends the entire movie getting brutalized like it’s his job description. At one point he’s tasered by the killer, then accidentally shot by the police, and eventually has his leg amputated—which the killer later steals. By the end, Hollinsworth looks less like a detective and more like a crash test dummy that’s been through too many product recalls.
The Killer: Discount John Doe
Our villain is Gerald Demus, who first poses as an FBI profiler named Wingate, then reveals himself as the guy behind the carnage. He’s obsessed with completing his “Body of Christ” before Easter, which involves murdering six people for limbs and torso parts, then snatching a newborn’s heart from a mother named Mary. Subtlety is not his strong suit.
Robert Joy plays Demus with the energy of a man who’s read too many Chick tracts and decided Ed Gein was onto something. He delivers Biblical babble with dead-eyed zeal, but he never becomes scary—just annoying, like a street preacher with a hacksaw.
Cronenberg: The Cameo You’ll Miss
David Cronenberg pops up briefly as a priest, which is fitting since watching this movie is its own form of body horror. He shows up, says a few lines, then wisely vanishes before the script drags him down. It’s like the filmmakers kidnapped him for a day, filmed him in a cassock, then shoved him out the back door before he could call his lawyer.
The Gore: Holy Body Parts, Batman
On paper, the kills should be disturbing: dismembered limbs, crucifix imagery, blood scrawled on walls. But the execution (pun intended) is so sloppy it borders on parody. Victims are introduced only to be chopped up like leftover rotisserie chickens, and the camera lingers with all the subtlety of a student film trying to prove it can afford fake blood.
Instead of terrifying, it becomes unintentionally funny. Watching a killer “collect parts” for Jesus sounds like a rejected South Park plotline. By the time he’s arranging corpses into a crucifixion tableau, you’re no longer horrified—you’re wondering if he applied for a grant from the Church of Hobby Lobby.
The Pacing: Thriller by Numbers
The film trudges through every cop-thriller cliché:
-
Brooding detective with a tragic past (check).
-
Partner who gets injured and sidelined (check).
-
Police captain yelling in his office (check).
-
Biblical verses as clues (double check).
-
Rooftop showdown with the killer holding a baby (oh, absolutely check).
It’s less a suspenseful narrative and more a checklist of tropes stolen from better movies. Every time Lambert shouts, “We’re running out of time!” you know what you’re really running out of: patience.
The Rooftop Finale: Baby Toss Olympics
The climax involves Demus trying to sacrifice a newborn named Mary’s baby on Easter, because symbolism. Prudhomme confronts him on a rooftop, they struggle, Lambert catches the baby, and Demus falls to his death. Cue inspirational music.
It’s supposed to be tense. Instead, it plays like a deleted sketch from Saturday Night Live: Christopher Lambert, grimacing in slow motion, clutching a rubber baby while a dollar-store Hannibal Lecter does a swan dive off the roof.
Straight to Video (And Rightfully So)
Europe, Asia, and Australia got theatrical releases. America got straight-to-DVD. And honestly? That was merciful. Imagine paying full ticket price in 1999 to watch this reheated stew of clichés. People would’ve demanded refunds in holy water.
The Message: Evil, But Make It Catholic
The film seems convinced it’s saying something profound about faith, suffering, and resurrection. What it’s really saying is: “We watched Seven on VHS, drank too much wine, and scribbled Bible verses on a napkin.” It tries to be smart, but every “revelation” lands like a theology student who didn’t do the reading.
Final Verdict
Resurrection is a Frankensteined mess: one part cop procedural, one part Bible study, and all parts dumb. Christopher Lambert broods, the killer preaches, and the script limps along on clichés until it collapses under its own crucifix-shaped weight.
It’s not scary. It’s not thrilling. It’s not even campy enough to be fun. It’s just… there. Like a sermon you can’t sneak out of, but with more severed limbs.
