In the Cold of the Night

HANDSOME, blonde, romantic-at-heart, pizza-loving, thirtysomething LA photographer (with own neon sign) who specialises in swimwear shoots looking for the girl of his (murderous) dreams. Ride on over and surprise me.

Part 80s lingerie catalogue, part foreigner's Cali love letter, In the Cold of the Night probably isn't what most film buffs consider good cinema... yet, it's got everything that makes cinema good... for the right audience.

Greece's one-man-movie-machine Nico Mastorakis (had his hits and misses, but you can't say he's unambitious), made this along with a bunch of straight-to-video genre flicks in the late 80s-early 90s. For me, it's his most accomplished thriller.

A Skinemax, De Palma and Hitchcock homage (it even STARS Tippi Hedren!), it's filled with 80s style (satin sheets: check, nouvelle cuisine: check, neon bikinis: check, men's short-shorts and Reeboks: check, Venice Beach, Laserdisc... you get the idea). If you love Brian De Palma at his most indulgent (think Femme Fatale or Passion) and late-80s Italian giallo (Nothing Underneath or Too Beautiful to Die), how could you dislike this?

It even features the decade's underused icon Brian Thompson in his usual 'hunk-with-the-one-liners' role ("you ever get the desire to make it with your mother?") who looks fresh off Fright Night II. Shannon Tweed's here, too (in the waterbed), giving a surprisingly tender performance.

Adrienne Sachs (1986's Miss Brazil), looking every bit the high fashion model, takes the Deborah Shelton-in-Body Double role and carries the sexy, mysterious female lead fairly well. Jeff Lester, coming across as the poster-boy from a menswear catalogue, is likeable but wooden as the photographer weekend sleuth.

While it never manages De Palma's flair, is light on story development and lags in the middle, it's still entertaining enough to warrant a great night in - if you're a fan of the erotic thriller and want one which makes a good stab at actually being a thriller.

Make sure you've got 80s cocktails, are appropriately (under)dressed and have a camera watching over you when you go to sleep.

Like an iconic motorcycle, it's stylish and flashy but hard to maintain (although it's a great ride).

I think Doppleganger (1993), by Israel's Avi Nesher (a man whose career is somewhat similar to Mastorakis) shares a lot of this flick's lets-go-to-town DNA.

A weirdly ridiculous, atmospheric late-night erotic thriller aping Brian De Palma (who's even mentioned by name?!), but even more so campy and convoluted (I know, how's that even possible?!). Nico Mastorakis' trashy conspiracy laced plot involves realistic nightmares of recurring themes/images, virtual reality murder visions, laserdiscs and a mysterious dream woman (Adrianne Sachs). It really does take on an outlandish turn in the last half-hour when Marc Singer makes himself known, letting us into the bigger scheme of things after a languidly teasing midsection. Doesn't make much sense, but it does enliven the plot in-spite of its lack of high-stake thrills favouring light weight mystery shades, hallucinogenic befuddlement and plenty of night time mist.

Visually it's lit and well-shot. Very 80s in style. Plastered with vibrant colours, sometimes neon and spacious white/cream decors. Right down to the glowing waterbed mattress. It simply pops. Cue in the sultry, smooth sax. And talking about bold and sexy, there's a minor part for Shannon Tweed. I wish she had been picked for the lead actress role, but I can see why Mastorakis went with the exotic Sachs. However I wasn't entirely feeling her spotty performance. Her delivery felt more forced than sincere compared to everyone else. Then there's the beefy Brian Thompson who shows up every once and awhile to provide some helpful advice, when he's not working out or shoving food into his mouth. Lastly there's the very odd, if rather self-aware cameo by Tippi Hedren.

I know people have their kinks. And no, I'm not talking about the protagonist's love for pineapple pizza. But actually the steamy sex scene involving an orgasm brought upon by marbles being poured onto Sachs' breasts. Oh the ecstasy! Forget about the candle wax, or massage oil fellas, marbles should do the trick.

I only have one thing to say about this movie, and that is that the guy sleeps on a water bed with a fluorescent light *inside* the mattress!

Say what you will about the rest of the film, that alone is one of the dumbest things I have ever seen. No wonder the guy has nightmares.

My review was written in January 1991 after watching the movie on Republic Pictures video cassette.

A very sexy lead performance by Adrienne Sachs highlights the farfetched nightmare thriller "In the Cold of the Night". Pic should score in the sex noir video and cable market; it's available in both NC-17 and R formats.

Filmmaker Nico Mastorakis harks back to the 1982 thriller "Blind Date" (one of Kirstie Alley's first leading roles) for a sci-fi thriller plot that has too many holes and is too attenuated for its own good.

Glamor photographer Jeff Lester is haunted by nightmares starring Sachs as a woman (whom he's never met in real life) that he kills. Shrink David Soul can't help much, and Leter's sex life with beauties like Shannon Tweed (a young vet of this genre) is hampered by his violent craziness brought on by the bad dreams.

Sachs shows up in the flesh in the third reel and pic slows down for endless sack time of her with Lester. Though the viewer knows they're headed for an unhappy ending, it's rewarding to watch this young actress. Lester is a bit bland; the role could have benefited from a name actor.

Film's credibility comes unglued with the introduction of Marc Singer as Sachs' boyfriend, who has rigged up a ludicrous mind-controlling experiment involving implants and laser disk recordings. Finale is a confusing anticlimax.

Mastorakis brings plenty of visual style to the thriller genre, and should attract a following in the wake of similar sex-oriented titles "Night Eyes", "Last Call" and "Deceptions". His in-jokes are poor, such as Tippi Hedren guest starring as Sachs' unlikely mom, who "has this thing about birds" or Lester glumly watching laser disks of Mastorakis' films "The Wind" and "Glitch".

A corny musical score, credited to many people, features a wailing tenor sax whenever the Pavlovian sex is about to begin.

This one's a hot, hot mess. There's no denying that much of the cinematography is well done and there are some visually compelling moments.

But truly, this is a terrible movie. The dialogue/script is overblown and comical. I'm a big fan of trash cinema but I'm really hard pressed to recall a movie that took itself so seriously but was so cliched and vacuous as this is.

The acting veers wildly between wooden and dinner theater histrionics and there are zero sympathetic characters in it.

Amusing and there are some stupefyingly bad moments of dialogue that will have you howling with laughter. The positive reviews are really difficult to comprehend.