Atom Egoyan’s Where the Truth Lies is a film that desperately wants to be dangerous, seductive, and layered with intrigue. Instead, it faceplants into the shag carpet of its own pretensions like a drunk lounge singer trying to nail a jazz solo in a karaoke bar. It’s supposed to be a neo-noir thriller full of sex, scandal, and the toxic rot beneath celebrity glamour. What it actually delivers is 107 minutes of people whispering about dead girls while smoking indoors and flashing sad, tired cleavage.
Released in 2005 and based on a novel by Rupert Holmes—yes, the “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” guy, because apparently that’s who you go to when you want a Hitchcockian murder mystery—Where the Truth Lies is Egoyan’s attempt to go Hollywood. He throws in a few threesomes, a possible murder, some gratuitous nudity, and a nonlinear plot that jerks back and forth between the 1950s and 1970s like a scratched record of Mad Men fanfiction. The result is a film that’s neither smart enough to be a mind-bender nor trashy enough to be fun.
Let’s set the scene: Vince Collins (Colin Firth) and Lanny Morris (Kevin Bacon) are a wildly successful 1950s comedy duo—a kind of Rat Pack version of Martin and Lewis, if Dean and Jerry also shared every secretary and prescription drug in sight. Their act is part charm, part smarm, and all foreshadowing. They’re inseparable… until the naked corpse of a young woman turns up in their hotel suite and their bromance unravels faster than a wet tuxedo.
Flash-forward 15 years: enter Karen O’Connor (Alison Lohman), a doe-eyed journalist with a tragic backstory and a master’s degree in gullibility. She’s writing a tell-all about Collins and Morris and hopes to uncover the truth behind the mysterious dead girl. But because this is an Egoyan film, “the truth” is obscured beneath layers of awkward sex scenes, flashbacks that interrupt themselves, and dialogue that sounds like it was written during an Ambien-induced fever dream.
Colin Firth, bless his British soul, plays Vince as if he’s trying to channel both Cary Grant and Charles Manson. He’s charming in that slippery, coked-out lounge act kind of way, but the script gives him nothing to chew on except exposition and cold shrimp. He spends half the movie narrating plot details like a man reading erotic haikus from a teleprompter. You can practically hear him thinking, “Is this what I left Bridget Jones for?”
Kevin Bacon, on the other hand, is clearly having a blast as the lascivious Lanny Morris. He cackles, he gropes, he smokes with abandon. He’s the only one who seems to realize the movie is a farce and decides to play it accordingly—like he’s starring in The Hangover if it were set in a haunted casino. Unfortunately, he’s also saddled with some of the worst “sexy” dialogue ever written, including a monologue about oysters that could make a nun renounce seafood forever.
Then there’s Alison Lohman, whose character is less of a reporter and more of a doe-eyed plot device with a perm. She’s supposed to be unraveling a dark mystery, but her investigative technique seems to involve sleeping with everyone involved and taking long, meaningful baths. Her performance swings between wide-eyed innocence and awkward seduction like she’s stuck in a high school play called Journalism: The Moan-ologue.
The eroticism in this film is as forced as the dialogue. There’s a much-hyped threesome scene involving Bacon, Firth, and Rachel Blanchard (the unlucky dead girl), and while it’s clearly meant to shock and titillate, it plays out with the chemistry of three people trying to assemble IKEA furniture while tipsy. There’s moaning, yes—but it’s the kind that says, “Where does this Allen wrench go again?” Egoyan treats sex like it’s something vaguely embarrassing but necessary for festival awards consideration. It’s not erotic. It’s just sweaty and confusing.
Visually, the film tries to evoke noir but ends up looking like a Cinemax after-dark special with delusions of grandeur. Every frame is overlit, overscored, and oversaturated with meaning. The cinematography keeps trying to remind us that this is a serious, adult film, but all it really does is underline the fact that no one knows where to stand or what to do with their hands.
And oh, the music. Mychael Danna—Egoyan’s frequent collaborator—lays it on thick. There’s jazzy sleaze for the sex scenes, ominous string flourishes for every moment of vague suspicion, and enough saxophone to make you feel like you’re trapped inside a perfume commercial from 1987. The score tries to whisper, “Isn’t this mysterious?” but instead screams, “We didn’t trust the actors to carry the scene!”
Plot-wise, the film is a mess of time jumps and red herrings. There’s a lot of dramatic voiceover, a lot of cryptic glances, and several scenes where people seem to forget what movie they’re in. The final twist lands with all the impact of a used tissue. You don’t gasp. You don’t lean forward. You just kind of squint and go, “Wait… that’s it?” It’s the cinematic equivalent of being promised a shocking confession and getting a vague shrug.
What Where the Truth Lies lacks, most of all, is a point. It flirts with big ideas—celebrity corruption, the cult of personality, the commodification of sex—but never commits to any of them. It wants to be noir but lacks bite. It wants to be a character study but forgets to write characters. It wants to be sexy but ends up with the erotic tension of a dental brochure.
Final verdict? Where the Truth Lies is a film about secrets that should’ve stayed buried. It’s a glossy, pretentious misfire that wastes its cast, its premise, and your time. If you’re looking for a stylish mystery, look elsewhere. If you’re looking for softcore noir with the emotional weight of a damp cigarette, congratulations—you’ve found your truth. Now please lie down and try to forget you watched it.