Winter Kills
Jeff Bridges may top the billing, but John Huston is the one who dominates Winter Kills. As the Kennedy-like patriarch, he’s a spectacle of eccentric authority—lounging in bathrobe and swimwear, bestowing brass knuckles as if they were family heirlooms, and refreshing himself with transfusions at one of his many hospitals. His presence is so strange and commanding that he eclipses everything else whenever he appears.
The film itself is a curious mess. Considering its notoriously chaotic production, it’s remarkable the finished product feels even remotely intact. The tone veers wildly, darting between political thriller and absurdist farce, never quite landing on either. By rights, it ought to collapse under the weight of its contradictions, yet it clings together.
Coherence isn’t the draw here—it’s the flashes of surreal bravado: Sterling Hayden manning a tank, Huston draped on a flag, Elizabeth Taylor gliding through in a wordless cameo.
The film itself is a curious mess. Considering its notoriously chaotic production, it’s remarkable the finished product feels even remotely intact. The tone veers wildly, darting between political thriller and absurdist farce, never quite landing on either. By rights, it ought to collapse under the weight of its contradictions, yet it clings together.
Coherence isn’t the draw here—it’s the flashes of surreal bravado: Sterling Hayden manning a tank, Huston draped on a flag, Elizabeth Taylor gliding through in a wordless cameo.
Mini Review: In Winter Kills, Jeff Bridges headlines but John Huston dominates as a Kennedy-like patriarch—eccentric, imperious, swanning in bathrobe and swimwear, gifting brass knuckles, taking transfusions. The film is a chaotic mix of thriller and farce, yet somehow holds together. Coherence isn’t the point—it’s the surreal bravado: Sterling Hayden in a tank, Huston draped on a flag, Elizabeth Taylor drifting by in silence.