Owen Gleiberman Chief Film Critic In a movie landscape where the horror never stops, “Longlegs,” released last summer, was able to make more than the usual boo!-and-then-forgotten-in-a-week impact.
It was a serial-killer mystery with a suavely creepy atmosphere and a showpiece performance by Nicolas Cage, who camped it up under long hair and pounds of makeup as an androgynous ringmaster sicko who reminded me of no one so much as the character of Witchiepoo from “H.R.
Pufnstuf.” “Longlegs” established its writer-director, Osgood Perkins (the 50-year-old son of Anthony Perkins), as a force in horror.
Yet I wasn’t as wild about the movie as a lot of people were. It was most effective when the fear gathered around Cage’s performance.
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