“Profiling a Serial Killer, One Cliché at a Time”
There are bad thrillers, and then there’s Two:Thirteen—a film so utterly mediocre it makes CSI: Topeka look like Silence of the Lambs. Directed by Charles Adelman in what feels like a dare from someone who said, “Bet you can’t make Sevenwithout any of the tension, atmosphere, or point,” this movie is the cinematic equivalent of a wet cardboard box filled with newspaper clippings about better films.
The title Two:Thirteen might refer to a time on the clock, a Bible verse, or how long it takes before you realize you’ve made a horrible mistake pressing play. It’s a film that aims for psychological horror but lands somewhere between Lifetime movie and late-night cable rerun you’d only watch if your remote batteries died.
Meet Russell Spivey: The World’s Saddest Profiler
Our “hero” is Russell Spivey (Mark Thompson), a police profiler with a tragic past, a drinking problem, and all the charisma of a half-empty whiskey bottle. He’s been on psychiatric leave, which is the film’s way of saying, “We’re really leaning into the ‘damaged genius’ trope.”
When he returns to work, it’s not with renewed vigor—it’s with the enthusiasm of a man forced to attend his own intervention. The guy is supposed to be a master of reading people, but most of the time he looks like he’s trying to remember if he left the oven on.
Spivey’s emotional baggage is central to the story: childhood trauma, dead parents, a therapist who may or may not be paid in exposition, and a recurring nightmare about masks. These masks, of course, conveniently tie into the new case he’s working on—because in this universe, all serial killers are contractually obligated to make their crimes deeply personal to the protagonist.
The Masked Murderer and Other Party Favors
The killer leaves behind cryptic messages, bizarre clues, and, yes, masks on the victims. It’s like someone binge-watched Saw and Hannibal but took all the wrong notes. Every crime scene feels like it was decorated by a spirit Halloween store with a “Serial Killer Starter Kit” coupon.
The murders are meant to be disturbing, but they’re about as scary as an elementary school haunted house. Victims are posed, notes are left, and Spivey stands around making that face detectives make in bad movies—chin down, squinting slightly, as if he’s trying to solve the mystery of why he agreed to this script.
And then come the riddles. Oh, the riddles. Every time a corpse shows up, it’s accompanied by some kind of wordplay clue—because nothing says “psychotic killer” like someone who majored in cryptic crossword puzzles.
By the third body, you’ll be praying for the killer to start sending Sudoku instead.
The Supporting Cast: A Conspiracy of Wasted Talent
Somehow, Two:Thirteen managed to lure a handful of recognizable names into its orbit, like moths to a particularly dull flame.
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Mark Pellegrino (Lost, Supernatural) plays John Tyler, who looks perpetually confused about whether he’s supposed to be a suspect, a friend, or just a guy who wandered in from another movie.
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Teri Polo (Meet the Parents) is Amanda Richardson, the female lead who exists mainly to look concerned and remind Spivey that maybe drinking himself unconscious isn’t the best coping strategy.
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Kevin Pollak shows up as Dr. Simmons, Spivey’s therapist, and delivers his lines with the detached tone of a man reading ransom notes to his own dignity.
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Dwight Yoakam also appears—because why not?—as a character named Sandy, who I’m fairly certain wandered onto the set looking for the catering table and got handed a badge.
It’s an impressive lineup of capable actors, all apparently competing to see who can appear the most disinterested. Spoiler: it’s a four-way tie.
Stylistically Speaking: CSI by Candlelight
Visually, Two:Thirteen tries so hard to look gritty and psychological that it forgets to be watchable. Every scene is dimly lit, every set looks like it was rented by the hour, and the camera can’t decide if it’s filming a thriller or a soap commercial.
There’s an attempt at noir-ish atmosphere, but it mostly feels like someone spilled a jar of Vaseline on the lens and said, “That’s mood.” The editing is choppy, the pacing glacial, and the soundtrack oscillates between “generic suspense drone” and “discount Nine Inch Nails demo tape.”
The movie’s idea of tension is cutting between a close-up of Spivey’s tortured face and a half-empty bottle of scotch. If you took a shot every time he broods silently, you’d pass out halfway through the second act—which, frankly, might be the healthiest way to experience this film.
Psychology for Dummies
Since Two:Thirteen bills itself as a “psychological thriller,” it naturally spends a lot of time pretending to understand psychology. The script throws around terms like “profiling,” “repression,” and “trauma” the way toddlers throw spaghetti.
There are therapy scenes where Kevin Pollak nods gravely and says things like, “You’re not confronting your past,” which is screenwriter shorthand for, “We didn’t bother to research actual therapy.” Every emotional revelation lands with the subtlety of a car crash.
The film’s big twist (if you can call it that) involves Spivey’s traumatic childhood—specifically, the masks from his youth being tied to the killer’s identity. Shocking, right? A detective haunted by his own past, forced to face his demons? Never been done before! (Se7en weeps quietly in the corner.*)
By the time the final reveal hits, you’ll have guessed it 40 minutes earlier and moved on to wondering if anyone involved in this production has ever met a human child.
The Killer Reveal: Predictable, Meet Pointless
Without spoiling too much—though honestly, spoiling Two:Thirteen is like telling someone there’s water in the ocean—the killer’s identity is less “jaw-dropping” and more “mild shrug.”
It’s one of those twist endings where the movie seems very proud of itself, even though the audience saw it coming from space. Imagine an M. Night Shyamalan plot twist written by a man who just learned about plot twists this morning.
By the time the credits roll, nothing is resolved, nothing makes sense, and no one cares. The film ends the way it began: with Spivey staring blankly into the abyss while the audience wonders if they left the stove on.
The Real Mystery: Who Greenlit This?
The biggest question Two:Thirteen raises isn’t “Who’s the killer?” It’s “Who thought this needed to exist?”
It’s a movie that tries to be dark, edgy, and psychological, but ends up feeling like the cinematic equivalent of a Hot Topic clearance bin. Everything about it is derivative: the tortured detective, the childhood trauma flashbacks, the creepy masks, the cryptic notes. It’s a checklist of serial killer clichés executed with all the finesse of a crime scene chalk outline drawn by a toddler.
You could cut together scenes from Seven, The Bone Collector, and Kiss the Girls, glue them together with masking tape, and still have a better film.
Final Thoughts: Death by Boredom
Two:Thirteen wants to be profound, but it’s mostly just profoundly dull. It’s the kind of movie that thinks a close-up of a man whispering “It’s happening again” counts as tension.
It’s not scary. It’s not thrilling. It’s not even particularly bad in an entertaining way—it’s just beige. It’s the cinematic equivalent of elevator music playing in a police interrogation room.
The only real mystery here is why it’s called Two:Thirteen. Maybe that’s the time the audience starts checking their watches and praying for the end credits.
Grade: D- (for “Detective, Depressed, Done”)
Because some thrillers get under your skin.
This one just makes you want to exfoliate.
