By Clint Morris
It makes sense that the new film â€˜â€™Streets of Bloodâ€™â€™ is set in a waterlogged post-Katrina New Orleans, because everyone in it is drowning!
Val Kilmer (in his umpteenth direct-to-video release of the last 18 months â€“ though in his defence, those other small-screen efforts are more tolerable) plays a copper whose partner has been found dead (check out the cheap, Troma-esque decomposed corpse!) floating-on-his-back in one of the many stores now under-water in New Orleans.
An investigation follows (Sharon Stone â€“ and her brand-new new face – probes the copper throughout the film as a psychologist), taking the officer and his new partner (a miscast Curtis â€™50 Centâ€™ Jackson) into the depths of the criminal underworld. Thrown into the mix is an FBI agent (Michael Biehn) assigned to keep tabs on the police officers following claims of corruption.
Val Kilmer. Sharon Stone. Big names, eh!? I thought so. But seems somethingâ€™s changed since the Clinton-era. Now once-fussy stars like Kilmer, Stone, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, and Meg Ryan, are available for anyone that can meet their assumingly still hefty but not-as-steep-as-their-1992-fee price-tag. When the seductive scum of Nu Image/Millennium (A C-grade film production house whoâ€™s somehow managed to get a seat at the A table) came-a-calling, seems Kilmer and Stone (just like De Niro, Pacino et al) were more than happy to grab an oar, and join them on a cruise down this river-of-shit. Whatever colours the bank balance green, ey!?
The money has talked. The bullshit now walksâ€¦. Straight to a Blockbuster near you.
The crowd that fruitfully enticed Robert De Niro and Al Pacino into the insufferable turkey â€œRighteous Killâ€, now turns their attention to Ice Man and, er, The â€˜Ice-Pickâ€™ sexpotâ€¦. Giving them whatâ€™s potentially the worst film of their careers. And itâ€™s just fuckinâ€™ sad. â€œStreets of Bloodâ€ is the film actors like Kilmer and Stone start out doing (the kind of embarrassing blemish a distributor will then release fifteen years down the track â€“ once the headline acts are of note), not something they finish off their careers with.
With abysmal production values (looks like something shot on a handycam, and itâ€™s edited about as finely as a videotaped school concert), embarrassing dialogue (the first two lines are a tip-off that a second draft was never commissioned), and indolent, donâ€™t-give-a-shit direction by Charles Winkler (â€œThe Net 2.0â€), this pointless cop-thriller serves as yet another reminder that everyone can be bought for a price â€“ even if itâ€™s ultimately not in their best interests.
Youâ€™ll need a tissue for this one.