What David Fincher Hath Wrought

Anamorph Directed by H.S. Miller

Imagine for a moment what David Fincher's Seven would have been like had its serial killer spent more time in college studying art rather than theology, and you'll have some idea of what to expect from Anamorph, yet another gruesome detective movie set in New York City.

After shooting a suspect in the Uncle Eddie serial killings under suspicious circumstances, Detective Stan Aubray (Willem Dafoe) is briefly questioned by his superiors, but they let his sloppiness slide since the killings have stopped. Stan can't let himself off that easily, though, especially since he neglected to warn a hooker that she might be a target before Uncle Eddie stabbed her to death. Now, five years later, what looks like a series of copycat killings start popping up around town. Tension is expected to arise from the question of whether or not it's the real Uncle Eddie or just a fan, but Anamorph is such a mess from the first frame that it never really matters.

It's shot in such a determinedly 1970s-style, the first time a cell phone rings it's a jarring experience. Director Miller alternately takes sloppy shortcuts (we know Stan is messed up because he drinks airplane bottles of alcohol while driving and doesn't have any friends other than a former prostitute played by Clea Duvall) and lugubrious intermissions from the plot for exposition. The most notable—and laughable—of these is the five-minute art history lesson, complete with slides, about the concept of anamorphosis, a technique that creates different images when viewed from different perspectives. This fascinating sidenote culminates in a heart-pounding scene in which ambitious young detective Carl (Scott Speedman) makes a staggering discovery with the help of his conveniently mirrored coffee mug.

Nor does it help that the serial killer's frenzy of activity after such a long retirement is attributed to his sudden refusal to wait for "the moment" of creation. Instead, he's forcing the moment by constructing elaborate tableaux for each of his victims, apparently intended for Stan to discover. And in increasingly unlikely circumstances, that's exactly what he does, from finding a painting of the first crime in the window of a second-hand store near his apartment to finding a chair stolen from his apartment in the killer's gallery show. Yes, a serial killer has taken the time to somehow snag a gallery show, despite never dealing with the owner in person. Struggling artists across the city should take note: Amorality is what it takes to succeed in the art business, apparently.

Even the casting of Dafoe is a lazy way of avoiding character development. Placing their faith in Dafoe's face, nothing more than skin tightly stretched over his skull at this point, Miller and co-screenwriter Tom Phelan leaves Stan an enigma, a hardworking cop ruined by a brutal serial killer, inexplicably still on the force in between teaching dull classes. Toss in Duvall's ex-prostitute's weird habit of giving blood (she's doing so in two out of her three scenes) and Speedman's confusing cop (is he just ambitious, or ambitious enough to kill?), and what you get is a grimy, ugly film about death and the living dead in New York City, without the redeeming ambition of Seven or even the cultural commentary of Summer of Sam.