Jennifer Eight

Directed by Bruce Robinson, Jennifer Eight follows a grizzled detective (Andy García’s John Berlin) as he begins looking into a series of unsolved murders and eventually falls for a potential witness (Uma Thurman’s Helena Robertson). It’s compelling subject matter that’s employed to partially engaging yet mostly underwhelming effect by Robinson, as the filmmaker, working from his own screenplay, delivers a slow and sluggish endeavor that contains, at its core, a tedious, hopelessly convoluted mystery – which ensures that the movie isn’t, for the bulk of its palpably overlong running time, nearly as engrossing as Robinson has intended (or as one might’ve anticipated). There’s little doubt, then, that Jennifer Eight benefits substantially from García’s intense performance and a smattering of admittedly engrossing sequences, including a tense interlude wherein John and his partner (Lance Henriksen’s Freddy Ross) investigate a dimly-lit institute, and it’s clear, too, that the movie’s second half receives a burst of energy from John Malkovich’s terrific, scene-stealing turn as a skeptical (and somewhat sketchy) FBI agent named St. Anne. By the time the abrupt finale rolls around, Jennifer Eight has undoubtedly cemented its place as a disappointing piece of work that squanders its promising setup and does, in the end, feel like a decent 90 minute thriller trapped within the confines of a bloated, two-plus hour misfire.

** out of ****