Heart Of Midnight Details

Ordinary story

Likely to happen to anyone. Should anyone leave you anything be wary.

Good cast. weak story. Usual mush.

[Highly rated reviewer]

Heart Of Midnight

Carol Rivers (Leigh) inherits a club; the Midnight from her uncle. She takes it as an oppurtunity to make a break from her life, thus far plagued with mental health problems. She moves into a her uncle's apartment above the club and gets the builders to continue with the renovations, intending to re-open. Her plans are derailed when, a few days into her new life, she's raped in her flat and into her life comes Sharpe (Coyote) a detective who seems to know Carol's uncle and may be able to offer answers to the wierd things that have been happening in the apartment since she moved in.

Artsploitation. That's probably what writer/director Matthew Chapman wants critics to call this film. He's taken an exploitation movie script (and, frankly, not a great one) and shot it as an arthouse film, no wonder his film flounders in obscurity.

There are a couple of things that make this odd film rise above the level of most DTV dreck. First is Chapman's direction, okay it's self conciously arty and not a little pretentious but in conjunction with his production designer he throws up some intriguing images, particularly as Carol explores the many rooms in her new apartment, finding a new theme to each.

The great strength of the film comes though from star Jennifer Jason Leigh. As Carol she's teriffic, even when Chapman's script puts the most hackneyed and unbelieveable dialogue in her mouth she manages to give it weight and a measure of reality. Her downturned mouth gives her the appearence of a sad porcelain doll and this suits her damaged character down to the ground but she also finds strength in Carol and makes it believeable that the character would find it in herself. It's a performance leagues better than the film deserves.

Sadly the only other real points of interest are in spotting slumming acctors (look it's Steve Buscemi as a rapist) and in wondering just what the hell Chapman is actually trying to say. There are woeful performances from Coyote (bored) and Frank Stallone (imagine, if you will, Sylvester Stallone without the speech impediment... or the talent.)

However the thing that hammers the nails into the coffin of this film is the appalling, overbearing, score from Yanni. It's like having a friend sitting by you, shouting how you should feel in each scene into your ear.

Matthew Chapman does enough things that are interesting visually to suggest that as a director he's probably got better work in him but he shouldn't be allowed near a typewriter, ever. An interesting failure.