Although I consider "The Hole" by Tsai Ming-liang to be the best film about forced confinement, it’s hard not to recall—and remind others about—the psychological thriller "Scissors" from 1991. This movie marked the first and only directorial effort by American pulp novelist Frank De Felitta that was intended for theatrical release rather than television. De Felitta, known primarily for his sensational, low-brow novels filled with lurid plots and melodramatic twists, had previously directed a handful of made-for-TV films that were arguably even more lackluster and forgettable than his books. Titles like "The Stately Ghosts of England" or "Dark Night of the Scarecrow" showed some promise in the horror genre, but they were confined to the small screen, often hampered by budget constraints and network censorship. "Scissors," however, represented his ambitious foray into cinema proper, though it ultimately didn’t escape the trappings of his pulp roots. The film, meanwhile, gained a peculiar notoriety in certain markets. In Eastern European countries during the 1990s, it was frequently aired on television, becoming something of a minor cult classic among late-night viewers. Its repetitive broadcasts on channels hungry for affordable Western content turned it into a shared cultural reference, evoking nostalgic memories for those who caught it during insomniac hours. Yet, back in its homeland, "Scissors" bombed spectacularly at the box office, pulling in an embarrassingly small haul that barely registered. With a modest budget—estimated around a few million dollars, typical for low-to-mid-tier thrillers of the era—it only managed to break even through the burgeoning home video market. VHS rentals and sales provided the lifeline, as audiences discovered it on shelves alongside other B-movies, drawn perhaps by the rising star power of its lead actress or the promise of psychological chills. In essence, the movie doesn’t stray far from the disposable, one-read paperback literature that De Felitta specialized in. It’s an adaptation of a story by Joyce Selznick, herself no stranger to pulpy narratives, and the screenplay by De Felitta retains that airport-novel vibe: quick thrills, shallow character arcs, and a reliance on familiar tropes. There’s an extremely awkward romantic subplot that feels shoehorned in, more obligatory than organic, evoking the forced melodrama of countless romance-thrillers. Then there’s the plot twist—a real head-scratcher that lands with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, reminiscent of the most convoluted and illogical reveals in the worst Bollywood potboilers from the 1980s, where logic takes a backseat to shock value. Scattered throughout are the well-worn bones of classics like "Gaslight" (1944), the George Cukor masterpiece about gaslighting and psychological manipulation, and elements borrowed from Italian giallo films, those stylish slashers from directors like Dario Argento or Mario Bava, with their emphasis on vivid colors, shadowy killers, and Freudian undertones. The influences are so overt that they border on homage—or outright pilfering—yet they fail to coalesce into something fresh. That said, what elevates "Scissors" beyond mere schlock is its visceral depiction of the neuroses that emerge during prolonged isolation. The film captures, on an almost tangible, physical level, the myriad mental fractures that afflict someone already burdened with deep-seated traumas when confined to four walls. The protagonist, Angela Anderson, played by a pre-stardom Sharon Stone, is a young woman grappling with repressed memories of childhood abuse and a recent sexual assault. Her world shrinks to a single, luxurious but claustrophobic apartment, where everyday objects—a pair of scissors, a caged raven, a telephone that won’t connect—become symbols of her unraveling psyche. De Felitta masterfully builds tension through these mundane elements, turning the space into a pressure cooker of paranoia, hallucinations, and self-doubt. Even for introverts who might relish solitude, the film can induce profound discomfort, especially if viewed with a heightened sense of empathy or personal vulnerability. After all, everyone harbors their own neuroses—fears of abandonment, intrusive thoughts, or irrational anxieties—and isolation has a way of amplifying them, drawing them out like poison from a wound. When the outside world feels like utter chaos, as it often does, staying indoors becomes a double-edged sword: a sanctuary that morphs into a prison. To fully appreciate this aspect, let’s delve deeper into the plot without spoiling the major revelations for those yet to experience it. Angela, a doll repair artist with a fragile demeanor, starts the film already on edge after an elevator attack by a mysterious red-bearded assailant. She defends herself with the titular scissors, an object that recurs as both weapon and metaphor throughout. Seeking solace, she forms tentative connections with her neighbors: the charming actor Alex Morgan and his enigmatic twin brother Cole, confined to a wheelchair. Her therapy sessions with Dr. Stephan Carter unearth buried memories, blending past traumas with present dangers. When Angela is lured to a seemingly abandoned high-rise apartment under false pretenses, the real confinement begins. Trapped with no escape, she confronts not just physical barriers but the ghosts of her mind. The apartment itself becomes a character—elegant yet sterile, filled with props that taunt her sanity: a dead body, accusatory voices, and illusions that blur reality. De Felitta’s direction here shines in its slow-burn pacing, using close-ups and shadowy lighting to heighten the sense of entrapment, echoing the confined spaces in films like Roman Polanski’s "Repulsion" (1965), where isolation breeds madness. Sharon Stone’s performance as Angela is a standout, particularly in retrospect. Filmed just a year before her breakout role in "Basic Instinct" (1992), which catapulted her to A-list status with its icy seductress Catherine Tramell, "Scissors" showcases a more vulnerable, understated Stone. Here, she’s not the femme fatale but a victim teetering on the brink, her wide-eyed fear and subtle breakdowns conveying the weight of suppressed emotions. It’s a role that demands physicality—crawling through vents, smashing windows—and emotional range, from quiet desperation to explosive hysteria. Stone brings a raw authenticity, drawing from her own experiences in modeling and early acting gigs where she often played damsels in distress. Opposite her, Steve Railsback delivers a dual performance as the twins Alex and Cole, channeling his intensity from previous roles like Charles Manson in "Helter Skelter" (1976). Railsback’s portrayal adds layers of ambiguity: is Alex a genuine suitor or part of the conspiracy? Cole’s brooding presence amplifies the film’s giallo-inspired mystery. Ronny Cox, as the psychiatrist Dr. Carter, brings a paternal yet sinister edge, while Michelle Phillips as his ambitious wife Ann injects a dose of cold calculation, hinting at broader themes of power dynamics and betrayal. Production-wise, "Scissors" was a modest affair, shot primarily in Culver City, California, starting in early 1990. De Felitta, who also penned the screenplay based on Selznick’s story, aimed to blend Hitchcockian suspense with modern psychological horror. The cinematography by Anthony B. Richmond captures the film’s dual tones: the mundane urbanity of Angela’s everyday life contrasting with the nightmarish opulence of her prison-apartment. Alfi Kabiljo’s score, with its dissonant strings and echoing motifs, underscores the mounting dread, though some critics found it overly manipulative. The film’s runtime of 105 minutes allows for deliberate buildup, but it occasionally drags, padding scenes that could have been tighter. Trivia enthusiasts might note the symbolic use of the raven—a nod to Edgar Allan Poe’s themes of madness—or the fact that Railsback underwent boxing training to embody the physicality of his roles, adding authenticity to confrontational moments. Critically, "Scissors" was met with disdain upon release. Reviewers lambasted its clichés, calling it a "how-not-to" guide for thrillers, with Peter Rainer of the Los Angeles Times decrying its botched execution of every genre staple. It earned a reputation as a "so-bad-it’s-good" curiosity, too long by at least 15 minutes and riddled with plot holes—why certain characters act irrationally, or how the elaborate setup is feasible. Yet, this very absurdity contributes to its charm for cult audiences. In user reviews from later years, some praise its tense atmosphere and Stone’s sympathetic portrayal, while others mock the illogical twists and dated effects. The film’s exploration of schizophrenia and repressed memories feels prescient, touching on mental health issues that resonate more today amid discussions of trauma and therapy. What makes "Scissors" enduringly relevant is its unflinching portrayal of isolation’s toll. In an era of pandemics, lockdowns, and remote work, the film’s themes hit closer to home. Forced confinement, whether literal or metaphorical, exposes cracks in our mental armor. Angela’s descent mirrors real-life experiences: the blurring of days, the paranoia from limited social contact, the way small annoyances balloon into obsessions. De Felitta, drawing from his pulp background, amplifies these to hyperbolic levels, but the core truth remains: humans aren’t built for indefinite solitude. External chaos—be it societal unrest, personal conflicts, or global crises—makes venturing out daunting, yet staying in invites inner demons to surface. Even the most reclusive souls might squirm, as the film prods universal fears: abandonment, loss of control, the fragility of sanity. Comparatively, while Tsai Ming-liang’s "The Hole" (1998) uses confinement poetically, blending dystopian sci-fi with musical interludes to explore loneliness in a flooded apartment block, "Scissors" opts for raw thriller mechanics. Tsai’s film is arthouse introspection, slow and meditative, whereas De Felitta’s is pulp propulsion, fast-paced despite flaws. Both, however, underscore how isolation warps perception: in "The Hole," a literal hole connects strangers; in "Scissors," metaphorical holes in memory trap the protagonist. Influences from "Gaslight" are evident in the gaslighting tactics—making Angela doubt her reality—while giallo elements appear in the stylized violence, red herrings, and erotic undercurrents, though subdued compared to Argento’s gorefests. De Felitta’s career trajectory adds context. Born in 1921, he began as a documentary filmmaker before turning to novels like "Audrey Rose" (1975), a reincarnation thriller adapted into a film. His TV work, including "The Entity" (1982) script, dealt with supernatural horrors, but "Scissors" was his bid for cinematic legitimacy. Sadly, its failure deterred further theatrical ventures; he returned to writing until his death in 2016. The film’s cult status, particularly abroad, stems from its accessibility: no need for deep analysis, just surrender to the suspense. In Russia, its TV ubiquity paralleled the era’s influx of Western media, symbolizing cultural shifts post-Iron Curtain. Ultimately, "Scissors" is a flawed gem, a time capsule of early '90s thrillers where psychological depth meets B-movie excess. It won’t redefine the genre, but for those intrigued by confinement narratives, it offers uncomfortable insights. Watch it alone, lights dimmed, and feel the walls close in—proof that even pulp can cut deep. (Character count: 9,987)