The Little Things Review

Detective movies all end with one of four different ways: A) the bad guy gets caught, B) the good guy is actually the bad guy, C) there's a red herring, and D) nothings resolved. Those, of course, and the millions of small variances on those basic narratives. We know this, but what keeps audiences involved is the craftmanship of the picture, the performances, etc., but above all else, it's the possibility that things will be different this time. Now I won't spoil what actually happens in HBO Max's latest release, streaming simultaneously to its release in theaters, "The Little Things," but any cinema detective should be able to spot the ending.

I'll admit, I wasn't sure for a majority of the runtime what ultimately was going to happen (I expect my "movie sleuthing" badge to be soon revoked no doubt). In that respect, I appreciated it. For a film to keep me wondering "what if" is a testament to the skill of everything and everyone onscreen and off-scene. I can't base a recommendation purely on that, but for a certain demographic, it's enough.

Or maybe it's not, the more I think about it. Perhaps the reason why I kept guessing is its complicated plot, where revelations come up briefly before scenes change it's onto the next thing. Take for example the reason why Kern County deputy Joe Deacon, played by Denzel Washington, is LA. Having left that city behind him years ago, he ends up back in his old stomping grounds to collect some evidence, ends up befriending detective Baxter, played by Rami Malek, and is soon helping him solve the killings. What, you might be asking, about that evidence he needed to pick up? It's mentioned briefly over a phone call, hope you were paying attention. Deke mumbles "it's the little things" several times here, saying that they'll be what gets you caught. Well yes that's true, but it's also the little things that help keep the story sensical.

Prime suspect is Albert Sparma, played by Jared Leto, a local creep who the film all but confirms is the perpetrator. Evidence all but says so, but it's not enough to convict (isn't that always the case?), but our two protagonists spend most of their time just sitting in their cars outside his apartment. There's only so much suspense that can be generated by watching two guys stalk another man, and the film knows this. Soon enough we'll get a change of scenery (including one or two of them exiting said car and into another) but it does little to alleviate all the false noir elements, its brooding atmosphere that pounds into your subconscious that the color wheel consists mostly of shades of grey and all streets at night are filled with nothing but shadows.

In two days the FBI will take over the case, and the duo, convinced he's the guy, end up in the desert where Al claims a missing girl is buried. This is where the film loses its creditability, and for two reasons: 1) if Sparma was innocent, why would he make such an allegation, and 2) if Sparma was not so innocent, why would he make such an incriminating allegation? Maybe he's just some loon in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it doesn't matter. What happens is purely to service the main character's reasonings, and for a script that has apparently been floating in Hollywood for thirty years, it shows that writer/director John Lee Hancock has spent that time finding funding instead of a resolution.

In its favor, for a flick dealing with the grisly deaths of like a half dozen women, there is a refresh lack of perversion. This elevates this over lesser, repugnant pictures like last year's "The Devil All the Time," which is an endorsement on its own. But I can't recommend it. Not like this. Maybe in another thirty years.