Winter Kills
Sort of a lunatic distant cousin to Oliver Stone’s JFK, this film has almost as interesting a backstory as what’s onscreen. Financed independently by marijuana dealers, having production get shut down three times due to union problems, and ultimately bringing in mob money that may have resulted in one of the executive producers getting shot dead and the other carted off to prison. The Kennedy parallels are everywhere (here renamed “Keegan”), as Jeff Bridges plays the younger brother of the assassinated President who stumbles across clue after clue many years after the fact to uncover the true conspiracy. It quickly becomes apparent that the Bridges character is either suffering from post-hypnotic suggestion or has undergone some brainwashing as we realize by the end that all along he has been the pawn in a much bigger game. The story is loaded with one too many red herrings and plot twist after surprise betrayal after another plot twist that ultimately the film collapses upon itself, coinciding with an extremely poorly staged shootout. The paranoia factor raises itself to an absurd level, with my favorite moment being when Bridges is attacked suddenly by a black maid who tries to toss him over the balcony, and he struggles and fights back ultimately to rip her top off. For his first (and only) major film effort, director William Richert managed to corral a pretty fantastic cast to support Bridges: John Huston as the Joseph Kennedy-type patriarch surprisingly doesn’t suffer from Noah Cross hangover, and gets some pretty snappy lines in as well; Eli Wallach is interesting as the gay Jack Ruby type, but Dorothy Malone (as Bridges’ mother), Ralph Meeker (as the shady contract maker), Tomas Milian (as an imprisoned mobster), Toshiro Mifune (as Bridges’ butler(!)), Sterling Hayden (as a blustery billionaire), Richard Boone (as a sea captain), and even Elizabeth Taylor (as a powerful DC Madam), are all trotted out to play their roles with little to no impression on the viewer. An exception is Belinda Bauer as Bridges’ girlfriend, who screams like a banshee during sex and whom Bridges is so fond of he calls her just to hear her voice on the answering machine. How she never became a big star after this is a bit of a surprise. In the end though, the true acting honors go to Anthony Perkins as the mastermind behind it all, exuding an eccentric creepiness as he guides Bridges around the intelligence nerve center, and seemingly nonplussed when threatened with violence for information. His memorable, though limited screen time, along with a few other small touches, make this a must-see for fans of conspiracy films and black comedies everywhere…
8/10