Somewhere between Remington Steele and James Bond, Pierce Brosnan had a little lull in his career... that is, if you can call eight years a lull. Made in the dead center of that lost decade, Brosnan turns in a lifeless, blood-drained performance in Raw Heat, a tepid psychological thriller that feels borrowed from such films as Fatal Attraction, Basic Instinct, and Color of Night -- the worst parts of each.

Stop me if you've heard this one before: Female psychiatrist (JoBeth Williams) finds herself falling for a tall, dark stranger (Brosnan), only one of her crazy patients (Virginia Madsen) claims that stranger is actually a madman! Do you believe the rich, sexy widower or the nutcase who keeps showing up when fires are started and blood is thrown all over your kitchen.

Exactly.

Brosnan is merely bored, but Williams and Madsen turn the material into an utter joke. Sure, the plot is stupidly derivative to the point where I'd say a plagiarism lawsuit is in order (as is the score, ripped straight from some of Hitchcock's most classic melodies), but why do the ladies have to run around each scene like whipped-up banshees?

It's silly, it's pointless, and it's frightening that anyone's career recovered from this nightmare.

Aka Victim of Love.