On review aggregator website Rotten Tomatoes, the film holds an approval rating of 0%, based on 29 reviews, with an average rating of 2.4/10. The consensus says, "Dark Crimes is a rote, unpleasant thriller that fails to parlay its compelling true story and a committed Jim Carrey performance into even modest chills."

Frankly, the real crime was the making this movie!

Wow!
Thanks for both classic screen gems: "Gaslight" and "Citizen Kane"!

There is an expression in the English language: "gaslighting" - thank to this film and Mr Boyer.

That's what I call a real "thriller"!

Now THIS is a good movie!
The title
The acting
The ending

The film was almost universally panned by critics and was nominated for six Golden Raspberries, including Worst Picture, Worst Actor (Willem Dafoe), Worst Director, Worst Supporting Actress (Anne Archer) and Worst Screenplay, with Madonna winning Worst Actress. It also appeared on the 2005 list of Roger Ebert's most hated films. The screenplay and performances were especially disparaged. Body of Evidence has an 8% rating over at Rotten Tomatoes based on 36 reviews.

I guess you don't need any more evidence proving how terrible movie it is...

Kedvenc sínésznőm - Sandra Bullock - most is kiváló volt. Azért a "Fiuk" (Oceán's 12) kenterbe verik e filmet, bár ez is tetszett.

Review aggregator Rotten Tomatoes gives the film a rating of 0%, based on 0 reviews. Audiences give the film a 21% rating, based on 929 reviews, with an average rating of 2.4/5.

You know what? Watch "Baywatch" instead...

Minden művét olvastam,nagyon szeretem.

The film was written by Viña Delmar, from a play by Helen and Noah Leary, which was in turn based on the novel by Josephine Lawrence

Josephine Lawrence wrote her novel "Years are so long" in 1934 - but it really looks like the one Stephen Leacock parodized in his nonsense novel: "Caroline's Chrismas" (published in 1911)

Just read the beginning of it, and you'll see what I'm talking about...

It was Xmas--Xmas with its mantle of white snow, scintillating from a thousand diamond points, Xmas with its good cheer, its peace on earth--Xmas with its feasting and merriment, Xmas with its--well, anyway, it was Xmas.

Or no, that's a slight slip; it wasn't exactly Xmas, it was Xmas Eve, Xmas Eve with its mantle of white snow lying beneath the calm moonlight--and, in fact, with practically the above list of accompanying circumstances with a few obvious emendations.

Yes, it was Xmas Eve.

And more than that!

Listen to where it was Xmas.

It was Xmas Eve on the Old Homestead. Reader, do you know, by sight, the Old Homestead? In the pauses of your work at your city desk, where you have grown rich and avaricious, does it never rise before your mind's eye, the quiet old homestead that knew you as a boy before your greed of gold tore you away from it? The Old Homestead that stands beside the road just on the rise of the hill, with its dark spruce trees wrapped in snow, the snug barns and the straw stacks behind it; while from its windows there streams a shaft of light from a coal-oil lamp, about as thick as a slate pencil that you can see four miles away, from the other side of the cedar swamp in the hollow. Don't talk to me of your modern searchlights and your incandescent arcs, beside that gleam of light from the coal-oil lamp in the farmhouse window. It will shine clear to the heart across thirty years of distance. Do you not turn, I say, sometimes, reader, from the roar and hustle of the city with its ill-gotten wealth and its godless creed of mammon, to think of the quiet homestead under the brow of the hill? You don't! Well, you skunk!

It was Xmas Eve.

The light shone from the windows of the homestead farm. The light of the log fire rose and flickered and mingled its red glare on the windows with the calm yellow of the lamplight.

John Enderby and his wife sat in the kitchen room of the farmstead. Do you know it, reader, the room called the kitchen?--with the open fire on its old brick hearth, and the cook stove in the corner. It is the room of the farm where people cook and eat and live. It is the living-room. The only other room beside the bedroom is the small room in front, chill-cold in winter, with an organ in it for playing "Rock of Ages" on, when company came. But this room is only used for music and funerals. The real room of the old farm is the kitchen. Does it not rise up before you, reader? It doesn't? Well, you darn fool!

At any rate there sat old John Enderby beside the plain deal table, his head bowed upon his hands, his grizzled face with its unshorn stubble stricken down with the lines of devastating trouble. From time to time he rose and cast a fresh stick of tamarack into the fire with a savage thud that sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. Across the fireplace sat his wife Anna on a straight-backed chair, looking into the fire with the mute resignation of her sex.

What was wrong with them anyway? Ah, reader, can you ask? Do you know or remember so little of the life of the old homestead? When I have said that it is the Old Homestead and Xmas Eve, and that the farmer is in great trouble and throwing tamarack at the fire, surely you ought to guess!

The Old Homestead was mortgaged! Ten years ago, reckless with debt, crazed with remorse, mad with despair and persecuted with rheumatism, John Enderby had mortgaged his farmstead for twenty-four dollars and thirty cents.

To-night the mortgage fell due, to-night at midnight, Xmas night. Such is the way in which mortgages of this kind are always drawn. Yes, sir, it was drawn with such diabolical skill that on this night of all nights the mortgage would be foreclosed. At midnight the men would come with hammer and nails and foreclose it, nail it up tight.

So the afflicted couple sat.

Anna, with the patient resignation of her sex, sat silent or at times endeavoured to read. She had taken down from the little wall-shelf Bunyan's Holy Living and Holy Dying. She tried to read it. She could not. Then she had taken Dante's Inferno. She could not read it. Then she had selected Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. But she could not read it either. Lastly, she had taken the Farmer's Almanac for 1911. The books lay littered about her as she sat in patient despair.

John Enderby showed all the passion of an uncontrolled nature. At times he would reach out for the crock of buttermilk that stood beside him and drained a draught of the maddening liquid, till his brain glowed like the coals of the tamarack fire before him.

"John," pleaded Anna, "leave alone the buttermilk. It only maddens you. No good ever came of that."

"Aye, lass," said the farmer, with a bitter laugh, as he buried his head again in the crock, "what care I if it maddens me."

"Ah, John, you'd better be employed in reading the Good Book than in your wild courses. Here take it, father, and read it"--and she handed to him the well-worn black volume from the shelf. Enderby paused a moment and held the volume in his hand. He and his wife had known nothing of religious teaching in the public schools of their day, but the first-class non-sectarian education that the farmer had received had stood him in good stead.

"Take the book," she said. "Read, John, in this hour of affliction; it brings comfort."

The farmer took from her hand the well-worn copy of Euclid's Elements, and laying aside his hat with reverence, he read aloud: "The angles at the base of an isoceles triangle are equal, and whosoever shall produce the sides, lo, the same also shall be equal each unto each."

The farmer put the book aside.

"It's no use, Anna. I can't read the good words to-night."

He rose, staggered to the crock of buttermilk, and before his wife could stay his hand, drained it to the last drop.

Then he sank heavily to his chair.

"Let them foreclose it, if they will," he said; "I am past caring."

The woman looked sadly into the fire.

Ah, if only her son Henry had been here. Henry, who had left them three years agone, and whose bright letters still brought from time to time the gleam of hope to the stricken farmhouse.

Henry was in Sing Sing. His letters brought news to his mother of his steady success; first in the baseball nine of the prison, a favourite with his wardens and the chaplain, the best bridge player of the corridor. Henry was pushing his way to the front with the old-time spirit of the Enderbys.

His mother had hoped that he might have been with her at Xmas, but Henry had written that it was practically impossible for him to leave Sing Sing. He could not see his way out. The authorities were arranging a dance and sleighing party for the Xmas celebration. He had some hope, he said, of slipping away unnoticed, but his doing so might excite attention.

Of the trouble at home Anna had told her son nothing.

No, Henry could not come. There was no help there. And William, the other son, ten years older than Henry. Alas, William had gone forth from the homestead to fight his way in the great city! "Mother," he had said, "when I make a million dollars I'll come home. Till then good-bye," and he had gone.

How Anna's heart had beat for him. Would he make that million dollars? Would she ever live to see it? And as the years passed she and John had often sat in the evenings picturing William at home again, bringing with him a million dollars, or picturing the million dollars sent by express with love. But the years had passed. William came not. He did not come. The great city had swallowed him up as it has many another lad from the old homestead.

...As for the movie: I couldn't bear more than five minutes of it.

You rather should read the (nonsense) novel, instead of watching the movie! It was translated (actually: rewritten) by Karinthy.

Szinkron kb 2 perc után kezdődik.

remek film

Ma úgy mondanánk: szkiffi-thriller. Ma - a DNS-be turkáláskor - sajnos valóság.

Kedves Judit !
A folytatást vagy a 2 részt hol lehet megtalálni ?

Ez a film nem indiai , a film a leírásról szól , de a címe sem jó . Próbáltam megkeresni a folytatást , de így nem lehet .

remek

Másodszor is megnéztem, érdemes volt. Ben Affleck játéka briliáns volt.

Harmadszor is! -:)

Юрий Герасимович Илье́нко
Режиссёр
1965 — Родник для жаждущих (укр.)русск.
1968 — Вечер накануне Ивана Купалы
1971 — Белая птица с чёрной отметиной (первая премия Московского МКФ, премия МКФ в Сорренто, оператор — Вилен Калюта)
1972 — Наперекор всему (Zivjeti za inat) (советско-югославский)
1974 — Мечтать и жить (по сценарию Ивана Миколайчука)
1976 — Праздник печёной картошки
1979 — Полоска нескошенных диких цветов
1981 — Лесная песня. Мавка (по Лесе Украинке)
1983 — Легенда о княгине Ольге
1987 — Соломенные колокола
1990 — Лебединое озеро. Зона (по сценарию С. Параджанова, Приз ФИПРЕССИ на Каннском МКФ)
1996 — Сергей Параджанов. Партитура Христа до мажор
2002 — Молитва о гетмане Мазепе

As you can see above, there are two DIFFERENT MOVIES you're talking about: the first one is "Белая птица с черной отметиной" (The White Bird with a Black Mark) (the original title: "Білий Птах З Чорною Ознакою")
It's a Ukrainian-Soviet drama film - released in 1971.

Наперекор всему / Zivjeti za inat (In Spite of Everything) is a Soviet-Yugoslav movie, set in Montenegro - or Crna Gora! (Released in 1972)

Elgondolkodtató film volt, köszönöm, hogy megnézhettem!

remek film

Semmi újat nem mondott ez a film számomra.
Azt a baromságot nem hiszem el, hogy egy (bármelyik) USA Elnök parancsot adna New-York atombombázására.

nem igazán jött be ez a film

Hát, igen! Eléggé képtelen történet, de - legalábbis számomra - szórakoztató volt. Kathy Bates szereplése pedig káprázatos.
Ha jól tudom Oscar díjat kapott (mint legjobb mellékszereplő) egy korábbi filmjében.

nincs befejezés

Van! Csak egy kis képzelőerő kell. '84-ben még dugdosták az 'X" aktákat. Mostanság tele van a youtube videókkal.