While staring glassy-eyed at interminably long stretches of “The Last Victim,” I was reminded of a ‘60s variety show sketch I viewed during my adolescence.
The premise of the skit: Producers of some returning fall shows were told at the last minute that their series had been expanded from 30 to 60 minutes, and they had to stretch scripts that had already been written.
So everything — walking down hallways, rifling through files, preparing coffee, everything — was done very, very slowly.
The sketch, as I recall, was amusing.
“The Last Victim” is not.
At least, not intentionally.The latest in a seemingly endless line of neo-noir thrillers with a neo-western gloss, “The Last Victim” plays like the work of people who watched “Blood Simple” and “No Country for Old Men” several times, slapped themselves on the forehead and said, “Hey! We can do that!” Not so, based on the evidence presented here.
Instead,
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