William Friedkin dives headfirst into his sleaziest instincts with JADE, conjuring a delirious mix of De Palma-style voyeurism and Verhoeven-esque erotic excess. A sweaty, high-gloss 90s giallo masquerading as a police procedural, drenched in fog, fetishism, and Far East fetish décor. It’s pulpy, excessive, ludicrous—and I loved nearly every second of it.
You’ve got a dead millionaire with a pubic hair collection that would make even the CSI team gag. David Caruso remains hilariously deadpan, somehow managing to get into two separate car accidents during a single investigation—both scenes staged with that unmistakable Friedkin intensity, as if car crashes are emotional punctuation.
The recurring visual obsession with Chinatown and the vaguely Asian-themed “JADE” premise—complete with museum-quality Chinese artifacts littered through foggy mansions—feels like aesthetic window-dressing with no real narrative foundation. Not a single major Asian character in sight, nor any cultural connection that justifies it. It’s a strange, ornamental choice, like someone shouting “exotic!” without knowing what they’re pointing at. It’s edgy, sure, but in that specifically 90s way where “edgy” often just meant confusingly Orientalist.
On the other hand, Linda Fiorentino in JADE is divine. As Katrina, she’s a few shades cooler and less overtly dangerous than her iconic femme fatale in THE LAST SEDUCTION, but no less hypnotic. There’s a quiet power to her performance here—a woman both hunted and hunting, whose every look suggests layers of withheld secrets. Her chemistry with Caruso is electric, and she handles overwrought dialogue like a pro, spinning silk from sleaze. The sex scenes and explicit photos throughout the film make anyone’s knees wobble.
MATT GAVIN: Trina, the next time we make love, you introduce me to Jade.
And then there’s that final scene—underplayed, tense, simmering with ambiguity. Friedkin resists the urge to over-explain, letting the final moments linger with a deliciously dark implication. It’s the kind of ending that makes you want to go back and rewatch the whole thing, just to pick apart who knew what, and when.
JADE is a beautiful, compulsively watchable mess. A high-camp, high-stakes erotic thriller with noirish flair, turbo-charged car chases, and David Caruso delivering the immortal line: “Cristal, Baluga, Wolfgang Puck... it's a fuckhouse..”
Cinema!
William Friedkin dives headfirst into his sleaziest instincts with JADE, conjuring a delirious mix of De Palma-style voyeurism and Verhoeven-esque erotic excess. A sweaty, high-gloss 90s giallo masquerading as a police procedural, drenched in fog, fetishism, and Far East fetish décor. It’s pulpy, excessive, ludicrous—and I loved nearly every second of it.
You’ve got a dead millionaire with a pubic hair collection that would make even the CSI team gag. David Caruso remains hilariously deadpan, somehow managing to get into two separate car accidents during a single investigation—both scenes staged with that unmistakable Friedkin intensity, as if car crashes are emotional punctuation.
The recurring visual obsession with Chinatown and the vaguely Asian-themed “JADE” premise—complete with museum-quality Chinese artifacts littered through foggy mansions—feels like aesthetic window-dressing with no real narrative foundation. Not a single major Asian character in sight, nor any cultural connection that justifies it. It’s a strange, ornamental choice, like someone shouting “exotic!” without knowing what they’re pointing at. It’s edgy, sure, but in that specifically 90s way where “edgy” often just meant confusingly Orientalist.
On the other hand, Linda Fiorentino in JADE is divine. As Katrina, she’s a few shades cooler and less overtly dangerous than her iconic femme fatale in THE LAST SEDUCTION, but no less hypnotic. There’s a quiet power to her performance here—a woman both hunted and hunting, whose every look suggests layers of withheld secrets. Her chemistry with Caruso is electric, and she handles overwrought dialogue like a pro, spinning silk from sleaze. The sex scenes and explicit photos throughout the film make anyone’s knees wobble.
MATT GAVIN: Trina, the next time we make love, you introduce me to Jade.
And then there’s that final scene—underplayed, tense, simmering with ambiguity. Friedkin resists the urge to over-explain, letting the final moments linger with a deliciously dark implication. It’s the kind of ending that makes you want to go back and rewatch the whole thing, just to pick apart who knew what, and when.
JADE is a beautiful, compulsively watchable mess. A high-camp, high-stakes erotic thriller with noirish flair, turbo-charged car chases, and David Caruso delivering the immortal line: “Cristal, Baluga, Wolfgang Puck... it's a fuckhouse..”
Cinema!
