Nearly forty years of censorship separate this from the 1946 original, and Rafelson takes full advantage. The raw, ugly, carnal energy James M. Cain put into the novel is more fully on screen — sex and violence as the engine, not decoration.
And yes, I’ll say it: I find this the more satisfying film, even knowing what Lana Turner achieved under the Hays Code’s thumb.
Nicholson’s solid, but Lange is the revelation. Where Turner brought icy, composed menace, Lange is feral, calculating, desperate — and more than once acts Nicholson off the screen. It’s her film.
The first hour is properly oppressive: heat, dust, desire and dread all pressing down at once. This is where it earns its keep.
Then the second hour loses the plot — morally, not literally. Rafelson gets so absorbed in what he can show that he never decides what he thinks about it. The 1946 version had a point of view despite its shackles; this one, handed full freedom, ends up rudderless.
A fascinating near-miss. Proof that censorship occasionally forced filmmakers to have opinions.