The Singing Detective

The Singing Detective is a jumbled mess of a movie. There’s no point in being coy about it; unless you’re intimately familiar with either the book or seven-hour British mini-series that came before it, the film’s not going to mean much to you. The storyline – what little of it there is – has something to do with a mystery writer named Dan Dark (Robert Downey Jr.) confined to a hospital bed with a debilitating case of psoriasis (a skin disorder that renders the victim virtually paralyzed). He passes the time by imagining himself in numerous situations – as a ’50s singer, as the central figure in his own novels, etc – while dealing with a variety of oddball characters. The Singing Detective is just too weird to work for those unfamiliar with the source material (like myself, in all fairness), though Downey does give a surprisingly affecting performance. That he’s able to create a semi-compelling character from underneath pounds of make-up is a testament to his ample talent. But all the talent in the world can’t disguise the fact that this is a terminally confusing and often irritating movie.

*1/2 out of ****

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