Cruising (1980) Review: Leather, Murder, and Lost Cops

TL;DR

Cruising is what happens when a crime thriller wanders into a leather bar at 2 a.m., forgets why it came, and wakes up married to confusion.

Cruising is not a good crime thriller. It’s not even a proper one. It’s a hostile artifact from a time when filmmakers were allowed to be reckless, unclear, and deeply unconcerned with your comfort.

It’s messy. It’s provocative. It’s frustrating. And it accidentally exposes how utterly useless cinematic cops become when they can’t punch their way to a conclusion.

From CRIMENET’s side of the alley: criminals get the style, the presence, and the mystique. The police get anxiety and a clipboard.

Which feels correct.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgNP881USEU

Undercover, Underdressed, and Out of His Depth

Let’s get this straight. This is sold as a serial-killer hunt. What you actually get is Cruising, a film where the criminal fantasy is not “catch the killer” but “watch the police lose the plot entirely while pretending they’re in control.”

From a CRIMENET point of view, this is delightful. The cops aren’t heroic bloodhounds. They’re confused Labradors wandering into nightclubs, sniffing leather harnesses, and asking themselves very quietly: Is this the case? Or is this my life now?

The criminal underworld, meanwhile, looks organised, ritualistic, and oddly functional. Which immediately puts them several IQ points above law enforcement.

Narrative? Never Heard of Her

The plot allegedly involves murders. Allegedly. In practice, the story moves like a drunk man trying to find his coat in a nightclub he doesn’t remember entering.

Things happen. Then other things happen. Then Pacino stares at something. Then leather. Then shouting. Then more leather. Then the film ends, seemingly out of spite.

If you’re waiting for a clean mystery, clues, escalation, or the faintest whiff of procedural competence, you’ll be waiting until the heat death of the universe. This isn’t a thriller. It’s a mood swing with a budget.

Everyone’s Acting, Nobody Knows Why

Al Pacino spends the entire film looking like a man who has accidentally clicked “Yes” on a pop-up he didn’t read. His undercover cop is less “deep cover professional” and more “guy who forgot his safe word.”

He commits fully, to be fair. He sweats. He broods. He looks haunted. But he also looks like he’s constantly thinking: I was in The Godfather. I could have stayed home.

The supporting cops are pure CRIMENET comedy gold. They swagger, they judge, they talk tough. And they achieve absolutely nothing. If confidence without competence were fuel, this squad could power Manhattan.

People Speaking Words at Each Other

Dialogue exists here mainly to bridge the gap between scenes of ominous staring and aggressive club music. Conversations don’t advance the plot so much as circle it nervously, like a cat inspecting a vacuum cleaner.

Nobody talks like a human. Everyone talks like a man who learned speech from police manuals and bad instincts. Which, frankly, tracks.

Welcome to New York: Please Don’t Touch Anything

This is where the film actually earns its keep. New York at night is filthy, claustrophobic, dangerous, and alive. The clubs feel real. Uncomfortable. Unapologetic.

You don’t feel like a tourist. You feel like you shouldn’t be there. Which is exactly the point.

The city isn’t a backdrop. It’s an accomplice. And it’s doing a much better job than the police.

Bold Choices, Questionable Consequences

William Friedkin directs this like he’s dared himself to make the audience uneasy for two hours straight.

Not thrilled. Not scared. Uneasy. Like sitting on a bar stool that might collapse but never quite does.

The decision to blur identities, repeat faces, and muddy the killer’s presence feels less like clever mystery and more like Friedkin tossing the rulebook into the Hudson and lighting it on fire.

Bold? Yes. Coherent? Absolutely not. Memorable? Unfortunately, yes.

Music That Actively Threatens You

The soundtrack doesn’t soothe or guide you. It attacks you. Punk, noise, abrasive rhythms. It’s as subtle as a boot to the ribs and twice as friendly.

Combined with the visuals, it creates a sensory overload that makes you feel like the film itself might mug you if you look away.

No Heroes, No Villains, Just Vibes

Here’s where people start clutching pearls.

Cruising does not moralise. It doesn’t explain. It doesn’t apologise. It simply dumps the viewer into a subculture, shines a harsh light, and leaves everyone to argue about what it all means.

From a CRIMENET perspective, that’s refreshing. The film doesn’t kneel before the altar of moral clarity. The cops aren’t saviours. The criminals aren’t cartoons. Everyone is compromised. Everyone is sweating.

The outrage around the film didn’t come from subtlety. It came from discomfort. And discomfort, historically, makes people scream louder than bad writing ever could.

It Gets Weirder the Second Time

First watch: confusion, irritation, fascination. Second watch: grudging respect for the atmosphere. Third watch: laughter at how utterly allergic this film is to narrative responsibility.

You don’t rewatch Cruising for answers. You rewatch it like you revisit a terrible bar story. Not because it makes sense, but because it refuses to die.

FAQ

Is Cruising worth watching today? Yes, if you enjoy crime films that actively resist your expectations and then mock you for having them.

Is it a good serial-killer movie? No. It’s a serial-killer adjacent mood experiment with delusions of menace.

Does the film glorify cops? Absolutely not. It quietly exposes them as lost tourists with badges.

Is it offensive or controversial? It was, and still is, because it refuses to explain itself politely.

Should CRIMENET readers watch it? Obviously. It’s a beautiful mess that sides with atmosphere, danger, and moral rot over clean endings and heroic speeches.