With superb performances from Frederic March, Humphrey Bogart and Arthur Kennedy, a taut script and on the money direction from William Wyler, The Desperate Hours is one of the great thrillers of its day. Unfortunately, this is Desperate Hours, one of the worst films of the nineties, or any other decade for that matter.
The first 15 minutes are great: tight, controlled and fairly convincing, with a surprisingly on-form Mickey Rourke. It doesn't last. As soon as he and his fellow unstable escaped murderers hide out in the home of Anthony Hopkins and Mimi Rogers' dysfunctional family it goes down the toilet faster than bleach. Logic is quickly abandoned, there are some dazzlingly obvious continuity errors and before long you feel almost as much a hostage as the truly obnoxious family themselves.
Mickey Rourke is initially very good, but the performance is not properly thought through and falls to pieces around the halfway mark. Hopkins, the most ridiculous Vietnam vet the screen has yet produced, is just appalling, Crouse bullish and one note while Kelly Lynch displays her breasts at every available opportunity - even in the opening jailbreak! - and to hell with logic or necessity.
With Desperate Hours, Michael Cimino finally made a film as bad as Heaven's Gate was supposed to be (but wasn't). Actually make that two, if you include The Sicilian. On the plus side, David Mansfield's score is very good indeed. Nothing else is. Avoid.