Deputy Sheriff Joe Deacon also said Deke, a Denzel Washington pot-bellied and graying but above all crushed by the weight of responsibility, he is sent to Los Angeles to gather evidence on a case. What was supposed to be a simple routine trip to his old department will soon turn into one hunt for the killer. The investigation into the series of murders that shocked the city, crimes very similar to those that Dake had obsessively investigated years earlier and which cost him his departure, has been entrusted to the ambitious Sergeant Jimmy Baxter. The young and dynamic detective of Rami Malek – here a little over the top in characterizing his character’s short temper – he is engaged in a race against time to catch the culprit before the FBI takes over. Immediately struck by the unorthodox methods of the old and mysterious sheriff, he goes against the opinion of his colleagues and decides to enlist his unofficial help. For his part, Deacon, in the hope of closing once and for all with his dark past, follows his instinct and goes after a suspect who has all the air of being a real homicidal maniac.
John Lee Hancock, putting aside his passion for true stories, writes and directs a 90s crime thriller focused on the obsessive search for truth. Two men of the law chasing a fool who has the face of Jared Leto, dangling and blank-eyed, not as charismatic as one would like, but in any case ended up in contention for the Golden Globe to Best Supporting Actor. Until the last clue, original title The Little Things, it is a story that does not give answers but insinuates doubts. He wonders about the fallibility of two detectives grappling with the LA monster, in an attempt to capture the pitfalls that lead to the degeneration of a delicate investigation.
A genre film that pushes the boundary between law and justice, it is perfect for an evening at home but also for the room where, if it could, it would certainly make its figure. This is also demonstrated by the performance at home, released simultaneously on HBO Max and at the cinema marks the best debut since the beginning of the pandemic.
The production is troubled, lasting thirty years, with a direction always at stake. The film, designed for Spielberg, is sold to Eastwood and then to Danny DeVito before returning to the hands of its creator. At the end of the line, the confrontation with the unattainable Se7en of 1995 – from which he can only emerge defeated – is obliged. Even if the primacy on the originality of the story is to be discussed because Hancock wrote his screenplay in ’93, Fincher’s film wins hands down in terms of narration, which to define captivating is an understatement, and sagacity of the dialogues. Until the last clue, for its part, it boasts a much higher verisimilitude and credibility, with a solid story, at least until the end. There, when the tension should reach its maximum, the action struggles to keep up.