Another hangnail injury leading to death and dismemberment.
It’s the brick’s fault in Terror At London Bridge (1985, aka Bridge Across Time). Specifically, when Jack the Ripper is shot and falls off the bridge, he takes a brick of the bridge with him into the water – and his spirit managed to transfer into the brick at the same time.
But where’s the bridge? It’s now located in Lake Havasu City, AZ, USA (true story), all of it except the missing brick – and now it’s been found and sent over to LHC. Bad things are about to happen in this tourist trap as Jack comes boiling out of that brick. And I do mean that literally – or Jack is highly carbonated. But he’s definitely decaf.
I generally figure a story can have one incredible plot mechanism, and so this qualifies. But now the local police have to figure out what’s happening to the women, and, well, it’s scattershot, between a detective, formerly of the Chicago Police Department, suffering PTSD after having shot a 14 year old boy to death during a burglary in his former life, to the detective’s assistant who has no life, apparently, outside of being an assistant, to the papier-mâché victims, there’s really no character with which to empathize. The Sheriff (or Chief, I forget now) has nothing, the detective might have a former relationship with some lady, but we’re not really sure, the assistant has a bit of gumption at the end, and the possible former girlfriend shows she can run like mad from Jack. There’s a mysterious fellow who wants to blow up the Bridge, but all we find out about him is a generic “mental illness.” He could have been interesting, but instead he’s consigned to the metaphorical loo.
But that’s about all. Oh, wait – I did appreciate the fact that clubbing the detective upside the head actually did result in a severe concussion and left him ineffective – and with a terrific headache – for several hours. It’s a sporadic attempt at enhancing the tension in the film.
And I noticed one attempt at a head feint – always important in detective stories, if not horror stories – but I’d guessed it was coming, so it was ineffective. Otherwise, it’s really just about the screaming and the slashing and the running.
And, as my Arts Editor observed, “This is baaad acting.” And a bad story.
Boring.
