The Little Things review: Denzel Washington stars in a startlingly dated crime thriller

John Lee Hancock’s film is a phantom of sorts, a voice from the past that insists on being heard

Dir: John Lee Hancock. Starring: Denzel Washington, Rami Malek, Jared Leto, Natalie Morales. 15, 127 mins

Ghosts loom inside the frames of The Little Things – small huddles of beautiful, young, murdered women who visit LA cop Joe “Deke” Deacon (Denzel Washington) in the depths of night. They embody the lingering guilt of a case left unsolved and a possible serial killer still on the loose. Deke’s obsession ended in a suspension, a divorce, and a triple bypass. Now, five years later, he lives in self-determined exile in nearby Kern County, where the most pressing mystery is the persistently disappearing “G” in the “Black Angus” steakhouse sign.

John Lee Hancock’s uninspired crime thriller, too, is a phantom of sorts, a voice from the past that insists on being heard. Whether it’s worthy of attention is a different matter. The director wrote its script in 1993 – it’s set even earlier, in 1990 – in the hope that Steven Spielberg would direct. In the intervening years, Hancock’s own reputation as a director grew, thanks to safe, awards-friendly fare such as The Blind Side and Saving Mr Banks. Eventually, it simply made sense for him to tackle the story.

But the years have not been kind to The Little Things. It feels dated. Startlingly so. Deke ends up back in LA and within the radius of his eventual successor, Jim Baxter (Rami Malek), who wears nice suits and has a picture-perfect family. The pair take a trip to a fresh murder scene, only for it to become clear that the city’s latest string of brutal murders might be the work of the same man who haunts Deke’s consciousness. And this time, there’s a suspect: an effusively creepy refrigerator repairman by the name of Albert Sparma (Jared Leto).

The film plays like a dutiful homage to David Fincher’s Se7en, despite the fact Hancock’s script technically preceded it. Scenes are bathed in the putrid glow of the city after dark, as the camera crawls forward like a predator on the hunt. Three decades ago, it probably would have been considered a daring break from convention. Now the radical has become routine and macabre detective stories with haunted, self-hating leads dominate television.

Deke (Denzel Washington) ends up back in LA and within the radius of his eventual successor, Jim Baxter (Rami Malek) (Warner Bros)

Washington sits comfortably in his role, providing a precise mix of quiet solemnity, wounded pride, and a weariness not yet curdled into cynicism. He does exactly what we expect him to do, as brilliantly as ever – it only serves as a reminder that he’s played this kind of flawed authority figure in so many other, better films. In contrast, Malek is too odd and interesting an actor to play a character of such bland competency, his perpetually clenched jaw hinting at a secret that the film never reveals. Leto, who arrives halfway through the film, with caved-in cheeks and Manson hair, treats the entire film like a joke played at the audience’s expense. They don’t seem to have minded – he’s already earned a Golden Globe nomination – even if he plays each note with the same broad, bug-eyed villainy as his Joker. Nuance doesn’t seem to be in his arsenal.

But nothing feels more jarring, or more out of tune with today, than the film’s portrayal of its victims. Deke warns Jim that he “owns” each one that crosses his desk. There’s a level of objectification here that feels uncomfortable – their violent deaths have been reduced to something beautiful, fragile, and poetic. Women have become haunting sirens. The Little Things never thinks to look beyond its tortured lead.