Only his third film in 17 years, Scottish director Donald Cammell followed his mind and identity-bending psychedelic masterpiece Performance (1968) and the studio-butchered Demon Seed (1977) with another oddity, the strange and confusing, yet nonetheless effortlessly intriguing White of the Eye. Cammell killed himself shortly after seeing his final film, Wild Side (1995), heavily censored by an appalled producer, at the end of what seemed like a frustrating career. It's a shame he wasn't allowed more opportunities to direct features, as although White of the Eye sometimes steers into TV-movie aesthetic and features an unnecessarily overblown climax, it is something to be savoured and thought about a long time after the credits roll.
After a series of brutal murders of upper-class women, tire tracks left by the killer leads Detective Charlie Mendoza (Art Evans) to sound expert Paul White (Keith David). We learn through flashbacks the meeting of Paul and his now-wife Joan (Cathy Moriarty), and how he stole her away from her boyfriend Mike Desantos (Alan Rosenberg). There's something not quite right about Paul - he has the strange ability to omit a sound that echoes through his head, allowing him to hear at what point in a room that the sound from speakers should come from. Mike knows something too, and when Joan discovers Paul's secret affair, she slowly uncovers who her husband really is.
There's not really much point trying to unravel the mysteries in the movie, as it will leave you with a headache. Below the surface of giallo-esque murders and the sleazy Lynchian atmosphere, there seems to be a mythology happening somewhere. At one point, Paul whispers "I am the One,". Is this really a deeper story than it lets on, or is Paul just simply a narcissistic loon? Whatever it is, the film works better if you just let it play out, as the film has a lot to offer in terms of style. The soundtrack, by Rick Fenn and Pink Floyd's Nick Mason, is a powerful presence, and drums up a dusty, apocalyptic feel reminiscent of Richard Stanley's Dust Devil, which came out 5 years later.
David's performance is also impressive, especially in the latter stages when he is let off the leash. But it's about the only good thing about the climax, which tries too hard to be a number of different things and fails in just about every one of them. It becomes almost generic, with car chases and a stalk-and-slash set-piece, completely betraying the slow-build that came before. Whether Cammell was simply trying to appease his producers or indulging in mainstream aspirations, I don't know. Still, this is a bizarre little treat; uncomfortable and distinctive, cementing it's status as a must-see for fans of cult oddities.
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