Back in the 1990s, it seemed that not a month went by when cinemas were not welcoming yet a new entry into the serial killer genre. After a while, the repetitiveness and predictability siphoned off the thrills, so there were attempts to add flourishes. None more so than Copycat, which was one of the few (perhaps the only?) film of the time to feature two leading ladies at the head of the action.
Copycat opens with an attack on OCD-afflicted psychologist Sigourney Weaver by serial killer Harry Connick, Jr. While she escapes, it is not unscathed. Now afflicted by severe agoraphobia, Weaver never leaves her apartment and relies solely on computers and her gay assistant to aid her in day to day life. When a separate serial killer (William McNamera) begins a killing spree emulating serial killers of the past, Weaver realizes the similarities and tries to alert the police anonymously, only to be pulled back into the fold by cops Holly Hunter and Dermot Mulroney.
Where to begin. I could lament the utter tastelessness of utilizing real-life serial killings as a basis for the murders in this film, but why bother? I will argue about the misleading trailers, which seemed to indicate that Connick was the main protagonist, when in fact he has little more than a glorified cameo here. This is a point of contention because Connick is actually creepy and menacing in his time on screen, while McNamera barely registers, which is a problem when your villain fades into the background.
While I commend producers/writers for giving us two actresses in the leads, it sounds better on paper than in practice here. Weaver, an actress I normally love, is uncharacteristically hammy here. Her psychologist heroine feels less like a real person than a grocery store list of tics and neuroses. The scene where she thinks her apartment has been invaded, but her agoraphobia forbids her from leaving is too laughably over the top. By contrast, Hunter is almost disastrously miscast. With her annoyingly lilting Texas twang and designer cop duds, Hunter feels less like professional police officer at the top of her game and more like a little girl playing dress up in mommy's work clothes. She does not convince you for one moment. Even worse, she has no camaraderie or chemistry with either Weaver or Mulroney, her romantic interest/partner in the film.
Plus the film's predictability is off the charts. Given this is set in the notoriously less PC 1990s, we know pretty much by rote the moment Weaver's effeminate gay assistant is introduced that he is dead meat and the film has little sympathy for him. Truthfully, the film has little sympathy for any of the victims. Even more repellent is the entire subplot surrounding Mulroney that the film telegraphs way too early. We open with Hunter's character wounding a suspect and her providing rather persuasive reasoning as to why she disarms rather than kills suspects. Mulroney is introduced as her partner/lover (because in TV and films obviously no man and woman could conceivably ever be partners without being lovers, unless one of them is gay, old or ugly), but the relationship seems like an afterthought and the film holds it like its a contrivance. In a completely unrelated moment later, Mulroney is taken hostage at the police station and Hunter wounds/disarms the suspect, only to have said suspect a moment later grab a firearm and blow Mulroney away in front of her. This sets up a bunch of contrived soul-searching as to why she did not just kill the culprit when she had the chance leading to some badly thought out unbelievable psycho-babble dialog between Weaver and Hunter; when truthfully we know this is just setting up for that pivotal climactic moment when Weaver is taken hostage and Hunter will know just how to handle his hash.
If any of this sounds exciting, then it must be my wording because the film is nearly devoid of suspense after its opening moments. Director Amiel seems more at home in dramas than thrillers, and it shows here in spades. If you are in to these types of films, there are worse, but there are also far better. You would do well to seek the betters ones out.
Copycat opens with an attack on OCD-afflicted psychologist Sigourney Weaver by serial killer Harry Connick, Jr. While she escapes, it is not unscathed. Now afflicted by severe agoraphobia, Weaver never leaves her apartment and relies solely on computers and her gay assistant to aid her in day to day life. When a separate serial killer (William McNamera) begins a killing spree emulating serial killers of the past, Weaver realizes the similarities and tries to alert the police anonymously, only to be pulled back into the fold by cops Holly Hunter and Dermot Mulroney.
Where to begin. I could lament the utter tastelessness of utilizing real-life serial killings as a basis for the murders in this film, but why bother? I will argue about the misleading trailers, which seemed to indicate that Connick was the main protagonist, when in fact he has little more than a glorified cameo here. This is a point of contention because Connick is actually creepy and menacing in his time on screen, while McNamera barely registers, which is a problem when your villain fades into the background.
While I commend producers/writers for giving us two actresses in the leads, it sounds better on paper than in practice here. Weaver, an actress I normally love, is uncharacteristically hammy here. Her psychologist heroine feels less like a real person than a grocery store list of tics and neuroses. The scene where she thinks her apartment has been invaded, but her agoraphobia forbids her from leaving is too laughably over the top. By contrast, Hunter is almost disastrously miscast. With her annoyingly lilting Texas twang and designer cop duds, Hunter feels less like professional police officer at the top of her game and more like a little girl playing dress up in mommy's work clothes. She does not convince you for one moment. Even worse, she has no camaraderie or chemistry with either Weaver or Mulroney, her romantic interest/partner in the film.
Plus the film's predictability is off the charts. Given this is set in the notoriously less PC 1990s, we know pretty much by rote the moment Weaver's effeminate gay assistant is introduced that he is dead meat and the film has little sympathy for him. Truthfully, the film has little sympathy for any of the victims. Even more repellent is the entire subplot surrounding Mulroney that the film telegraphs way too early. We open with Hunter's character wounding a suspect and her providing rather persuasive reasoning as to why she disarms rather than kills suspects. Mulroney is introduced as her partner/lover (because in TV and films obviously no man and woman could conceivably ever be partners without being lovers, unless one of them is gay, old or ugly), but the relationship seems like an afterthought and the film holds it like its a contrivance. In a completely unrelated moment later, Mulroney is taken hostage at the police station and Hunter wounds/disarms the suspect, only to have said suspect a moment later grab a firearm and blow Mulroney away in front of her. This sets up a bunch of contrived soul-searching as to why she did not just kill the culprit when she had the chance leading to some badly thought out unbelievable psycho-babble dialog between Weaver and Hunter; when truthfully we know this is just setting up for that pivotal climactic moment when Weaver is taken hostage and Hunter will know just how to handle his hash.
If any of this sounds exciting, then it must be my wording because the film is nearly devoid of suspense after its opening moments. Director Amiel seems more at home in dramas than thrillers, and it shows here in spades. If you are in to these types of films, there are worse, but there are also far better. You would do well to seek the betters ones out.