In Cruising writer-director William Friedkin explores the S&M life of New York City. Like any approach to the bizarre, it is fascinating for about 15 minutes.
In many respects, Cruising [from the novel by Gerald Walker] resembles the worst of the ‘hippie’ films of the 1960s.
Taking away the kissing, caressing and a few bloody killings, Friedkin has no story, though picture pretends to be a murder mystery combined with a study of Al Pacino’s psychological degradation.
Pacino is an innocent young cop chosen to go underground in search of a killer. He ultimately zeroes in on the culprit but by now is almost as far around the bend as his prey. But that’s not saying much more than the old maxim: ‘he who lies down with dogs gets up with fleas.’
