Whispers

And so our trip through Koontzville (a commonality adjacent to Weinerville) continues with 1990's Whispers, a direct-to-video trinket directed by the same auteur who brought us 1994's The Paperboy and a short entitled Why Men Rape.  Yep.  I'll be honest.  This review may not be coherent or particularly articulate.  Over the past five nights, I've had one night of decent sleep.  My head is swimming with murk and ground clouds.  We're going to try melatonin tonight.  Failing that, I'll get sloshed on Vanilla Coke and treat myself to a viewing of Rosemary's Baby.  Swear to God, that flick makes me conk out every single time I try to watch it.  I've still never finished the damn thing.

Oh, Whispers.  Right.  Victoria Tennant stars as a woman being macerated by her ex.  The fucker comes very close to dispatching her within the first ten minutes, and again ten minutes later.  Man, this chum is a real wiseacre.  We see blurry flashbacks to his childhood, but nothing is clarified until the stomach-churning finale.  Without spoiling anything, it involves cockroaches.  I will say, for a film with a meager budget, it does develop tension in certain spots.  Director Douglas Jackson (y'know, the begetter of paperboy rapists) spins a gnarly web of distress and consternation.  The gore is light.  In fact, I would surmise that Whispers was a made-for-TV project if it wasn't for the prurient sex scenes.

Prurient?  I sound like a fusspot.  A fuddy-duddy!  I can't wait to eat dinner.  I'm having penne rigate tossed with shrimp and smothered in Caribbean jerk sauce.  See, I told you that my mind was a bit erratic.  Oh, Whispers.  Right.  Chris Sarandon turns in as a sympathetic cop who wiggles his way into becoming the love interest.  In my eyes, he looks bored out of his skull.  The role doesn't require much of him, and yes, he played the exact same character in Child's Play.  Hell, Tennant even resembles Catherine Hicks.  The pace is boggy in fits and spells.  In other words, this chiller-thriller lost its grip on my attention span on a number of occasions.

Don't get me wrong; this is a fairly gross, engrossing scare picture.  It ends at just the right point, whereas my review has loitered on past its date of departure.  Yeah, I left a long, looong time ago.  So who is typing?  Dean Koontz, most likely.  PS (or whatever) - I scanned Whispers on YouTube.  It's a cool VHS rip that includes a pair of trailers.  I am now looking forward to Moon 44 and Repossessed.  Fuck, why didn't you tell me that my copy of Rosemary's Baby is twenty-eight years late at Ballbuster???  There goes the kid's college fund.  I'm glad I killed him.  Oh, Whispers.  Right.  It's so-so.