When she's not ogling men's muscles, the lady homicide detective who narrates the feminist serial-killer thriller Almost Night spends a lot of time lamenting women's lack of self-esteem and extolling exotic foliage and fruit with a passion that would have impressed Frida Kahlo. Never mind that someone is going around Miami sadistically butchering lonely professional women. This whodunit remains strangely unsuspenseful, due largely to Ann Prospero's robotic dialogue; all the characters speak in the same lifeless monotone. And you'll spot both the killer and the heroine's future love interest in a nanosecond. C
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