The first knifing in William Friedkin's "Cruising", which takes place in a seedy hotel room after two men have had sex, seemed so realistic I stared in numb surprise. It was something akin to what I imagine a snuff film would be like. Once straight cop Al Pacino is assigned to the case, going undercover in New York's gay leather bars to find the serial killer of homosexual men, I found the picture akin to cheap porno: ugly, depressing, degrading, repetitive and, finally, boring. A few good scenes here and there: Pacino practically forcing a man into sex because he thinks he's got the murderer, with the cops bursting in too soon; the interrogation scene of that unfortunate guy, who is achingly humiliated. Karen Allen (in her debut) has a nice, squirrelly presence as Pacino's girlfriend, and the pseudo-dramatic ending got a laugh out of me for its sheer dumbness. Pacino himself isn't shown to good advantage here; he's "acting," showing off, but he's not in character because there really is no character. The movie has a foreboding presence, but doesn't utilize it to build any kind of momentum. Alas, as a thriller, "Cruising" is impotent. *1/2 from ****
Review of Cruising
