Sands

"White Sands" starts out withatmosphericpromise. Against the majestic
scenery of New Mexico, a cartears along a desertroad, dust billowing
behind it. Deputysheriff Willem Dafoe isrushing to a murder site,where
the victim lies face down, agun in one hand and abriefcase containing
half a milliondollars lyingclose by.It's aprovocativebeginning and, for
atime at least, themystery remains rich and tantalizing. Dafoedoesn't
buy coroner M. Emmet Walsh's initial verdict of suicide. Hebecomes
convinced theunidentified man was involved in shadybusiness and that he
was murdered as a result of it. He's right, of course. There wouldn't be a
movieotherwise. Dafoe,wholives a rather humdrumlife inhissmall town,
decides to get to thebottom of it. Itbecomes an obsession. Why? It's not
clearto bewildered wife Mimi Rogers -- or us.In a bizarre discovery,which
involves some icky,gastrointestinal detective work, Dafoe uncovers a vital
clue. Posing as the dead man, Dafoetakes the money andheads for the
victim'snext appointment. He soonfindshimself on the wrongside of the
law,crossing paths with FBI agent Samuel L. Jackson (the memorable crack
addict in "Jungle Fever"),mystery woman Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio and
evenmoremysterious man Mickey Rourke.Healsohas an unceremonious meeting
withtwo deadlyninja-womenwho seem tohave stepped out of "Basic
Instinct." The women are thefirst of manyabsurdities to follow. The movie
loses all authority, despite wonderful workfromcinematographer Peter
Menzies andcomposer Patrick O'Hearn. Inscreenwriter Daniel Pyne's hands,
everycharacterbecomes a disappointment. Even Dafoe loseshis zest as the
movieprogresses. His existential "discovery" ofthe good-bad divide inhis
soul is the stuff ofvery tired filmnoir. Mastrantonio,whofalls inlove
with Dafoe for no apparentreason, is meantto behis bad-girl temptation.
Butshe lacks thenecessaryedge. Rourke,who in theworst of movies
maintains a wonderfully oily-machismo quality, seems aghost ofhimself.
And Rogers,who remainsspaniel-like at home for the duration, must be
hurting for work.There aremoments to savor, however. Walshmakes a
wonderfullymacabre coroner. "Looks like a radish," he sayspicking through
some intestinal unmentionables at the autopsy. "They inseason?" On another
occasion, Mastrantonio tellsundercover Dafoe: "You don'thaveto be
straight with me, it's OK. But itdoesn't lenditself to intimacy."But
thesemoments are emptyjoys in the movie's poorly painted context.
Director Roger Donaldson seems undulyrushed; the movie lacks the care and
precision ofhis superior thriller, "No Way Out." Hisefforts reflect a
misguided conceit that you canevokeclassic murdermystery merely by
throwing all thecliches together. Formost of this movvie, hehashishead
in the sand.