was first adapted for the screen by Alan Pakula in 1990, the movie felt like part of a Hollywood trend catering to white male paranoia. Michael Douglas was the chief avatar of this school of pop culture projection: In the years before and after, he was stalked by a one-night stand instarring the less abrasive Harrison Ford, was a more prestigious and tasteful artifact of its time, but its premise remains very much of a specific historical moment. That makes David E.
Granted, the novel and Pakula’s adaptation were both hits for a reason. As with most of Turow’s thrillers, the plot operates like a Swiss watch, in this case forming a pair of merciless pincers closing in on Rusty Sabich , an Illinois prosecutor whose co-worker Carolyn Polhemus is found murdered and grotesquely hog-tied in her home. Rusty’s boss, District Attorney Ray Horgan , insists that Rusty work the case.
Stepping in to provide a little zest to these proceedings are Fagbenle and Sarsgaard, serving as villains pro tem, until the murderer is discovered. Fagbenle’s Della Guardia is a deliciously slick political animal with a silken voice and languid deadpan. Sarsgaard is even more fun to watch and hate as a second-rater finally getting his chance to nail the guy who has always overshadowed him. His sleepy smirk as he maneuvers Rusty into traps of his own making is mustache-twirling for our time.
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