When thieves break into a New York home they thought would be empty, the occupying woman and her teenage daughter find refuge in the panic room unaware that it is the target of the intruders’ plan.
David Fincher had a lot to live up to when he made this film, which makes it all the more perplexing that he chose such a generic and unimaginative script for his follow up to Fight Club. In fact if anything, the directorial flourishes that worked so well in the context of the off-beat idiosyncrasies of that film just look out of place and pointless here and despite the slight Hitchcockian vibe it all seems too overly familiar. Jodie Foster gets to showcase her cleavage, spending the whole running time of the film in her underwear and Kristen Stewart has little to do except look sickly. The villains each have their specific stereotypes, the pick of the film being the ever reliable Forest Whitaker as the criminal with a conscience but there are a couple of major plot contrivances that just didn’t work for me and there is little in the way of surprises along the way.
It is a solidly made, decent quality Hollywood thriller, but I’ve come to expect more from David Fincher.