Color of Night

Summer is indeed almost over. Just as the leaves begin to change, heralding the first cool blush of autumn, we receive our annual psycho-sex-thriller starring Brace Willis. Which means we have to view Brucie's chunky physique in the buff. No wonder some people dread the approach of fall.

Color of Night, Willis's latest effort, isn't the worst of the crappy thrillers he's done. It's even funny on occasion, though it isn't clear whether humor was the filmmakers' intention. What the point of this movie is supposed to be is an equally murky matter. Despite several murders and a few outlandish plot twists, stalling for screen time appears to be the film's only focus.

Willis plays a New York-based psychiatrist whose argumentative style of therapy sends a disgruntled client flying out of his office window. This convinces Willis to give up his practice (though I'd think that in Manhattan you could find plenty of neurotics game to try this technique) and bolt for Los Angeles. (Good idea. L.A. has lots of neurotics, but fewer high-rise buildings.)

But before he has time to mope in the California sunshine, a friend (Scott Bakula) turns up dead, and Willis has to take over the guy's therapy group in order to find the murderer. He also meets up with Jane March, who keeps popping up naked about every 20 minutes.

Color of Night's only redeeming quality is Ruben Blades, who plays a foul-mouthed police detective. Otherwise, the movie drags its way to one of the most pathetically ludicrous conclusions that a lousy scriptwriter could cough up on a bad day.