Review of Eyes of Laura Mars (1978) by Thomas P — 22 Oct 2015

"Eyes of Laura Mars" is the kind of film that sounds good on pencil and paper but ultimately gets lost in the translation to the silver screen. It is a vehicle for Faye Dunaway, whose titular fashion photographer is being terrorized by psychic visions of horrific murders. The visions themselves are not fragments of the future a la "That's So Raven" but in-the-moment experiences that force Laura to see life through the killer's eyes during his most bloodthirsty moments.

Laura's work combines sex and violence with opulence perhaps only equalled by David LaChapelle - don't rule out a photograph featuring semi-nude Veruschka look-a-likes surrounded by German shepherds and post-explosion muscle cars. Because the film is set in the 1970s, much of the population is, of course, disgusted by her disregard of good taste; the killer's obsession with modeling his murder scenes after her spreads is fitting. But before long, it becomes ever apparent that, while the madman could easily spend the rest of his life targeting those closest to Laura, the woman he is dangerously infatuated with is the broad he'd like to Catherine Tramell the most.

"Eyes of Laura Mars" has been touted as a fine example of American giallo by the biggest of, ahem, giallo nerds (me being one of them), but such a title seems to be thrown around as an act of desperation rather than a genuine one, retaining none of the cool of the cult subgenre yet magnetizing all the recurring melodramatic faults. It could be a film of sizzling noir edges - the imagery surrounding Laura's occupation is the best onscreen depiction of the sex-and-death-101 trope I've ever seen put to film - but it is much too Hollywood to be anything other than a white woman in trouble cheesefest. With a story straight out of a hallucinatory De Palma masterpiece, one can imagine the film it might have been had it put all its attention on sleek style and thrilling scenes of terror to further its whodunit status. But no: it is more hell bent on an unconvincing romance between Laura and a detective (Tommy Lee Jones) that goes from passing glances to breathy "I-love-you's" in a time period shorter than a gnat's attention span. I can only sob at the way it chooses the path of a modern Joan Crawford vehicle; I don't mention De Palma for nothing, as he could have made the film something really special (picture the split-screens, the genius close-ups, the neat cinematographic effects!). But we're stuck with Irvin Kershner, who doesn't see the gold in front of him and directs the film with a disappointingly bland palette.

Even Faye Dunaway, one of the most quintessential actresses of the 1970s, makes for an unimpressive lead, pulling out all the stops necessary to overact a role with Doris Day-in-"Julie" heft. "Eyes of Laura Mars" dumps a truckload of wasted potential onto us. And no, we don't find out why Laura was given the enigmatic ability to live life through the killer's point-of-view at the worst of times. It's ridiculousness trapped in a laughable sandwich.