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Frédéric Petitjean’s alleged thriller is so flat and joyless that I even began to dislike “Leon.” If Jean Reno wasn’t part of that 1994 Luc Besson hit, chances are he wouldn’t still be playing a hitman over twenty-five years later. Life truly is a tragedy, especially for a man of Reno’s stature, who in his remaining years having to feign interest in a movie like this wherein he plays Henry, a hitman. Henry is one of those “serious movie hitmen” who believes The Art of War speaks to him, and he spends his days living supremely far away from civilization. He is a living, breathing stereotype of a killer, many of whom were popularized in the world of novelization post-Premier of “Leon”. It’s utterly laughable how this film does not have a shred of competence visually. Both Reno and Arbogast seem to be repaying a favor, and only halfheartedly so.
The film starts with Henry. After a long engagement in a French coma, he is awakened by two criminals trying to kill him. It would be much nicer if this was where the film started, but I feel like this is precisely where it ends. After a perilous struggle, one of the assailants is thrown out the window and the other is found hanging at the bottom of the window by a belt, clad in a violent jacket and his body somehow almost completely nude.
This is how a woman named Melody (Sarah Lind) emerges in his lonely world. She crashes her snowmobile close to his cabin and he finds her body. He carries her back and while the film cuts to a detective named Kappa (Joe Anderson), goes on to explore how he tries to solve Henry’s last crime with unreasonable sense of dedication. Will Melody be able to trust Henry? What was she doing in the Boston Rockies? Then, how does Kappa get to the snowy locations that make up the rest of the film?
These questions take time to resolve, which makes them uninteresting. It is simple to predict, from very far away, the twist involving Melody, but the film builds on it being much more entertaining than it actually is. “Cold Blood” turns into an exercise in boredom, one that is not just limited by the almost absent storyline, but also the most awkwardly written, and it is not even an exaggeration, delivered dialog of the year. It is as if someone read a poorly written crime novel out loud in a different language, a language which is a Google Translate application, and afterwards, the performers understood their lines through phonetics.
Some of the conversations in cold blood appeared to be so out of context or awkwardly phrased that I felt like I was watching an overly dubbed film and had to remind myself that it wasn’t in fact, dubbed. The writing in one particular scene with a lady suffering from dementia was something out of a Wiseau movie.
If you’re still trying to piece together the puzzle, wondering whether or not that means cold blood is a B movie, I’m here to bring bad news. That wouldn’t be the case. A year ago, I was told my flaming review of Gotti made so many people actually want to seek it out for the sole purpose of witnessing the horrendous train wreck for themselves, and every single one of them ended up regretting it. This time you can trust me, cold blood isn’t hysterically bad but simply boring.
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