Palmetto (1998)

Palmetto is the kind of sun-drenched noir that feels sticky with sweat and bad decisions, where every smile has a hook in it and every deal comes with fine print written in venom. Volker Schlöndorff leans into the pulpy pleasures—double-crosses, seductive danger, and that delicious sense that the hero is always one step behind—while Woody Harrelson makes Harry Barber a bruised, stubborn everyman you can’t help but root for. With Gina Gershon and Elisabeth Shue bringing heat and ambiguity in equal measure, the movie builds an atmosphere of Florida glamour turned sour, keeping you guessing without ever winking at its own cynicism. It’s not for viewers who want a clean, tasteful thriller—there’s explicit sexuality and a darkly grotesque streak—but if you’re in the mood for a twisty, old-school crime story that commits to its mood, it’s a sly, satisfying ride.

Palmetto is clearly aiming for a sweaty Florida neo-noir where a wronged man gets pulled into a “simple” scheme that keeps curdling into deeper betrayal, and on paper that’s a fun lane. The problem is the movie often confuses complication with tension: the pacing drifts, the dialogue can feel oddly flat, and the twists start stacking up in ways that feel more preposterous than punchy. Woody Harrelson gives the lead a weary, decent-guy edge, and the cast brings some heat, but the tone never quite locks into either seductive noir or sharp thriller, so it can play like an imitation of better films. If you want a tight, clever mystery with clean payoffs, this may frustrate you; if you’re okay with messy plotting and are mainly here for the sleazy atmosphere and performances, you might still get something out of it.