We all wish the young men were dying of orgasms to turn this movie into an orgy of touchy-feely fatalities. However, the deaths are real and not of the “you’re killing me” with pelvic thrusts variety.
Movie: 'Deep Water' would've been sexier if it kept its underwear on
Deep Water is an erotic thriller starring Ana de Armas and Ben Affleck, lovers who can’t keep their pants on long enough to experience any meaningful orgasm as young men keep dying around them.
Deep Water is a weird movie
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A creepier Ben Affleck
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Based on the Patricia Highsmith novel of the same name, Deep Water follows married couple Vic and Melinda (Ben is Vic and Melinda is Ana, of course).
They have been married long enough to realise that their responsibilities as parents are more important than their responsibilities to hump each other into next week.
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Melinda, though, misses her endless romps between the sheets and so decides to have many affairs — all under her husband's nose.
However, each time she sleeps with a new man, that new man ends up sleeping for an eternity as he is mysteriously murdered.
Vic, of course, is the prime suspect in the death of at least one of her lovers.
Then another, and another…you get the drift.
Highsmith's books have been adapted into several brilliant films such as The Talented Mr Ripley and Strangers on a Train. However, Deep Water sinks to cinematic fatality in comparison.
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Affleck and de Armas go as well together as a fist and a face that’s about to be punched.
de Armas plays the bored seductress
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Sure, there is tension which sparks a sort of antagonistic chemistry between them, but that doesn’t give us any understanding of these two rather shallow characters.
We do not feel any underlying sense of hurt or any real erotic energy between the two, thus the film is about as sexy as the hindquarters of a giant baboon at a beauty contest.
The plot is predictable, the emotions are one dimensional, beat for beat, with zero resemblance to what a true thriller should be.
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Maybe this film should’ve just been called a black comedy, without the comedy or the black-don’t-crack dimensions (there was some comic relief from Milton "Lil Rel" Howery Jr. though).
At one point, I thought there would be a twist, for the film to delve into the morality of murder, with Affleck’s menacing detachment combining with de Armas' seductive intelligence to underline the dark fantasies inside us all.
Fantasies which that led Swiss psychiatrist Carl Gustav Jung to say we are all potential killers.
Instead, we get a PG-13 rated wannabee soft porn flick with two actors that seem like a crowd instead of company.
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