At least this made-for-TV movie wasn't shot in Canada, although it might as well have been. It does the kind of job most TV movies do -- a straightforward, almost documentary, retelling of the incidents with enough fictional human interest scenes to turn it into something more than a search for Colonel Plum and his pepperbox revolver.
I suppose most of us remember the killing spree around Washington, DC, in the early 90s. It was in the news every night. President Bush made a public comment on it. Two African-Americans drove around town in a Chevrolet with a hole cut through the trunk. The older man, played by Bobby Hosea, exerts some sort of charismatic spell over his younger disciple, Trent Cameron. Hosea drives the car, giving orders like "Clear your mind," while Cameron snuggles in the trunk and sights his Bushmaster rifle through the circular opening.
It begins with a bang. Actually three or four bangs, discreetly done. No squibs explode. The victim looks surprised, stumbles a bit, and drops. Some victims we don't see at all.
Both Hosea and Cameron are quite good, given the material they have to work with. Charles Dutton is the main figure, the police chief, built like a tank, speaking slowly, deliberately, emphatically to the TV cameras. He doesn't really bring much to the party. He gets to look exhausted and once or twice his eyes brim with tears. There is a sentimental coda that is supposed to make the audience sight with relief and gratitude. I'm afraid I dislike these tacked-on happy endings. It's like the beaten boxer, glimpsing his girl friend in the crowd, then hauling himself to his feet and clobbering his opponent to the canvas.
Someone complained that the film didn't answer any important questions, such as, "Why did those two guys go around shooting people." I'm glad no answer was provided because at this stage of the game there is none to be had. The vast majority of homicides involve people who know one another. It's perfectly understandable because the victims are people who know us, whose opinions we care about, and who are in a position to hurt us. Killing a complete stranger has a preposterous quality. What's going on inside the heads of people like this, to whom shooting someone at random seems only a step or two beyond blasting a traffic sign on a rural road? Nobody knows. And the usual attempts at explanation -- abused as a child, traumatized by a war, grew up in a dysfunctional family -- are as ridiculous as the murders themselves.
I suppose most of us remember the killing spree around Washington, DC, in the early 90s. It was in the news every night. President Bush made a public comment on it. Two African-Americans drove around town in a Chevrolet with a hole cut through the trunk. The older man, played by Bobby Hosea, exerts some sort of charismatic spell over his younger disciple, Trent Cameron. Hosea drives the car, giving orders like "Clear your mind," while Cameron snuggles in the trunk and sights his Bushmaster rifle through the circular opening.
It begins with a bang. Actually three or four bangs, discreetly done. No squibs explode. The victim looks surprised, stumbles a bit, and drops. Some victims we don't see at all.
Both Hosea and Cameron are quite good, given the material they have to work with. Charles Dutton is the main figure, the police chief, built like a tank, speaking slowly, deliberately, emphatically to the TV cameras. He doesn't really bring much to the party. He gets to look exhausted and once or twice his eyes brim with tears. There is a sentimental coda that is supposed to make the audience sight with relief and gratitude. I'm afraid I dislike these tacked-on happy endings. It's like the beaten boxer, glimpsing his girl friend in the crowd, then hauling himself to his feet and clobbering his opponent to the canvas.
Someone complained that the film didn't answer any important questions, such as, "Why did those two guys go around shooting people." I'm glad no answer was provided because at this stage of the game there is none to be had. The vast majority of homicides involve people who know one another. It's perfectly understandable because the victims are people who know us, whose opinions we care about, and who are in a position to hurt us. Killing a complete stranger has a preposterous quality. What's going on inside the heads of people like this, to whom shooting someone at random seems only a step or two beyond blasting a traffic sign on a rural road? Nobody knows. And the usual attempts at explanation -- abused as a child, traumatized by a war, grew up in a dysfunctional family -- are as ridiculous as the murders themselves.