“In a building full of secrets, somehow the biggest one was that no one gave a damn.”
Let’s just get this out of the way up front: Sliver is not a good movie. It’s not even a “so bad it’s good” movie. It’s a “how the hell did this get greenlit, written by a guy who clearly banged it out between martinis” kind of movie. It’s as if someone watched Basic Instinct while half-asleep and thought, “You know what this needs? Less charisma, more security cameras, and William Baldwin.” And by God, someone said yes.
This movie is like when your grandma tries to be sexy—awkward, confusing, and you kind of want to bleach your brain afterward. Directed by Phillip Noyce (who would later atone with The Quiet American) and written by Joe Eszterhas (of Showgirls infamy), Sliver is a whimpering, over-produced voyeur-thriller that’s all tease and no climax.
And at the center of it? Sharon Stone trying to be a femme fatale again, but looking like she’s trying to remember if she left the stove on. And William Baldwin, whose idea of intensity is squinting and breathing through his mouth like he’s confused by ceiling fans.
Let’s break this trainwreck down.
The Plot: Or Something Like It
Sharon Stone plays Carly Norris, a book editor with the fashion sense of a GAP mannequin and the decision-making skills of a raccoon in a hardware store. After the last tenant of her new high-rise apartment goes splat on the sidewalk in a gory suicide (or was it?), Carly moves in like she’s shopping for shoes—except the shoes are haunted by death and terrible dialogue.
The apartment building, nicknamed “The Sliver,” is supposedly chic and mysterious, but it really just looks like an office building someone forgot to finish painting. And wouldn’t you know it, this isn’t just any building—it’s got cameras in every room. Because of course it does. Surveillance is sexy, right? Right?
Enter Zeke Hawkins (William Baldwin), a tech billionaire who owns the building and has a voice like a stoned foghorn. Zeke is rich, weird, and instantly obsessed with Carly. She’s attracted to him too—for reasons that aren’t clear unless your type is “male mannequin with a stalker’s grin.”
So begins a convoluted mess of a love affair peppered with murders, jumpy VHS footage, and more staring contests than a bad improv class. Someone’s killing off tenants, Zeke’s got enough surveillance gear to make the NSA blush, and Carly’s biggest concern is whether he’s emotionally distant.
Sharon Stone: The Femme Fatale That Wasn’t
Now, I know Sharon Stone was still basking in the radioactive glow of Basic Instinct when this was made. She had clout. She had heat. And she had that leg-crossing moment etched into every teenager’s hormonal memory forever. But in Sliver, she’s all out of ammo.
This performance is a foggy glass of tap water. Stone spends most of the film looking either confused, mildly annoyed, or bored. When she’s supposed to be terrified, she looks like she just got bad sushi. When she’s aroused, it’s like watching someone try to flirt their way through a DMV line. She reads erotic tension the way Siri reads bedtime stories.
Stone’s Carly is a woman caught between desire and danger, but the danger never feels real, and the desire never catches fire. She spends a good portion of the movie being gaslit by every man around her, and her reaction is usually to tilt her head slightly and blink like someone just rang a bell she doesn’t recognize.
Femme fatale? More like femme forgot-her-lines.
William Baldwin: A Walking Vacuum of Charisma
Look, I don’t know what casting agent looked at the Baldwin family tree and said, “Give me the one who looks like he’s allergic to acting,” but here we are. William Baldwin is like if you gave a robot a photo of Alec Baldwin and said, “Get close, but not too close. And never emote.”
Zeke Hawkins is supposed to be mysterious. Dangerous. Seductive. Instead, he comes off like a guy who sells timeshares in Tampa and only watches movies on airplanes. Every line is delivered in that nasal, try-hard whisper that sounds like he’s either about to seduce you or offer you life insurance.
His idea of sexual chemistry is whispering sweet nothings into Carly’s ear like: “I watch everything… all the time…” as if that’s supposed to be erotic instead of a red flag with sirens attached. You don’t feel seduced—you feel like calling mall security.
And let’s not forget his monologue about “being curious” while watching people on camera. He delivers it with all the gravitas of a man explaining how to use a fax machine.
Voyeurism: The Least Sexy Surveillance Ever Filmed
Now, Sliver wants to be a movie about voyeurism—about the thrill of watching and being watched. Think Rear Window, but with more saxophone and fewer brains.
But the problem is, watching this movie is about as sexy as waiting for a dentist appointment. The surveillance footage looks like rejected camcorder ads. The actual “watching” scenes have the erotic charge of someone checking their Ring doorbell app for package thieves.
You’ve got grainy black-and-white clips of tenants brushing their teeth and stretching in the morning. Ooh, scandalous. What are we doing, arousing the neighborhood sleep clinic?
And don’t even get me started on the “sex” scenes. We’re talking full-on slow-motion moaning on top of satin sheets with lighting so dim it looks like someone paid the electric bill in coupons. There’s more chemistry in a middle school science fair than between Stone and Baldwin during these moments.
The Murder Mystery That Forgot It Was a Mystery
There is, allegedly, a murder plot here. Tenants are dropping like flies. There’s a mysterious death at the beginning. Carly starts suspecting that something is very wrong. But the movie keeps forgetting that it’s supposed to be a thriller.
Every time it builds any suspense, it cuts to another clumsy sex scene or a shot of Sharon Stone slowly walking down a hallway looking confused. The reveal of the killer is so limp, so last-minute, it’s like they decided on the way to the editing room. There’s no buildup, no payoff, no tension.
Imagine if Clue ended with Tim Curry just pointing randomly and saying, “Yeah, it was that guy. Roll credits.”
The Dialogue: Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest
You’d think a script by Joe Eszterhas would at least be entertainingly bad. But Sliver somehow manages to be both sleazy and boring, which is a hell of a combo. The dialogue swings between faux-deep psychobabble and the kind of pickup lines that would get you slapped at Applebee’s.
Lines like:
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“I like to watch… people. All kinds of people.”
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“Do you want me to make you scream?”
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“I’m not who you think I am.”
(That last one applies to the director, the writer, and probably Sharon Stone too.)
Even the supporting cast (including a wasted Tom Berenger) can’t save this. Berenger looks like he wandered in from a better movie and is trying to figure out how to escape through a side door.
Final Thoughts: A Shiny Trash Heap with No Fire Inside
Sliver is the kind of movie that thinks it’s sexy because it plays saxophone over scenes of Sharon Stone looking confused. It thinks it’s dangerous because it has grainy surveillance footage and people fall off balconies. But really, it’s just a flat, lifeless slog through every erotic thriller cliché, minus the thrills or the eroticism.
It’s a film that tries to coast on the fumes of Basic Instinct without realizing it needs a spark plug. Stone looks checked out. Baldwin should be checked for a pulse. The plot is thinner than dollar store tissue paper, and the mystery unravels like a wet sock.
This movie is like a strip club run by accountants—no heat, no payoff, and by the end, you’re just wondering how you got there and how fast you can leave.
Rating: 3.5/10
Only watch this if you’re on a dare.
