The premise is hard to swallow and harder to digest. A fashionable fashion photographer (Faye Dunaway), who shoots sadomasochistic pictures with an imperceptible moral purpose behind them, periodically blanks out the world in front of her face and sees momentarily through the eyes of an anonymous killer as he stalks the photographer's associates one by one and pokes out their eyes with a stiletto. The way Dunaway describes her unpredictable visions, it's as if the killer were transmitting a TV image, albeit a fuzzy one, into her brain. No explanation of this unusual phenomenon is offered or sought, and the audience is left to wonder what prevents the heroine from having one of her visions when the killer is signing a check or brushing his teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, thus revealing his identity then and there. This is one of those dishonestly plotted mysteries in which the more you learn, the less you understand. The only thing that lightens up the film, which has a soupy gray look to it, like New England-style clam chowder, is the laughable vacuousness of the aesthetic issues. When Dunaway sweeps regally into her gala Soho art opening, for instance, the vulturish reporters pepper her with catchwords like "elitist," "offensive," "a hype," and so on; and she, the universal Misunderstood Artist, sighs in exasperation, "Does anyone have anything positive to ask?" With Tommy Lee Jones, Rene Auberjonois, and Brad Dourif; directed by Irvin Kershner. (1978) — Duncan Shepherd