Based on Ruth Rendell's shortish novel Lake of Darkness, this made-for-British-TV film rises to the level of Hitchcock. I know the label is too often applied to films in exaggeration or flat out error. But trust me, Dead Lucky is the real article. It is peopled by the dotty bumblers and ineffectuals from the working class and petite bourgeoisie backgrounds that made Hitch's early British films such a delight. (--Say, before Jesse Royce Landice in a mink hat and stole, gibbering about The Hamptons, came to epitomize the Hitchcock stock-in-trade dotty character.) These in-good-faith types are wholly inadequate to the task of coming to terms with a truly evil person in their midst when he arrives in the person of an apparently mentally-deficient assassin named Finn.
Along the way, our nominal hero does a fair amount of struggling with impulses he dares not fully own. In all of this, there is a delicious irony at work that Hitchcock would have loved. The assassin is perfectly centered, knowing who and what he is about, while the mature hero flails about like a teenager trying to discover what he wants out of life. The assassin "notices things", while the bourgeois boobs, including our hero, seem credibly oblivious to everything until it hits them over the head. Thus, the nominal villain of the piece is in ways more admirable than the poor victims he will set upon. And we eventually come to understand that the hero is as empty as we first take the villain to be.
None of this is forced, and it moves at the easy pace of life as it is lived. It is a quiet film, one that shocks you doubly, when the fireworks begin, for eschewing Hollywood bombast.
A solid Ten Stars. See it.
Along the way, our nominal hero does a fair amount of struggling with impulses he dares not fully own. In all of this, there is a delicious irony at work that Hitchcock would have loved. The assassin is perfectly centered, knowing who and what he is about, while the mature hero flails about like a teenager trying to discover what he wants out of life. The assassin "notices things", while the bourgeois boobs, including our hero, seem credibly oblivious to everything until it hits them over the head. Thus, the nominal villain of the piece is in ways more admirable than the poor victims he will set upon. And we eventually come to understand that the hero is as empty as we first take the villain to be.
None of this is forced, and it moves at the easy pace of life as it is lived. It is a quiet film, one that shocks you doubly, when the fireworks begin, for eschewing Hollywood bombast.
A solid Ten Stars. See it.