A complete commercial non-event on its theatrical release, Blue Steel still managed to tickle the fancy of quite a few critics, naturally intrigued by the notion of a woman director and a leading female star together tackling the traditional men-only preserve of the tough cop thriller. Throw in the fact that this is an Oliver Stone production and the box office bellyflop is — on paper — yet more difficult to understand.
On video viewing, however, Blue Steel adds up to little more than a faintly hysterical version of what is a fairly dull blueprint to start off with. Rookie cop Megan Turner (Curtis) finds herself first the date then the prey of commodities broker-cum-psycho Ron Silver and chases him all over town while trying to fend off various accusations that she isn't much cop at this sort of thing because she's not Clint Eastwood. Curtis and Silver both know how to do this sort of thing with their eyes shut and the first half-hour has some genuine class about it, but too often Bigelow presses the overkill button, reducing Silver's initially intriguing mix of sharp suits and bullets to a simple blood-crazed voices-in-the-head sort of nutter while Curtis' attempts to prove herself all on her own seem simply stupid and worthy of that much-feared return to pushing pencils.
By the time Curtis — after what must be five days without sleep — suddenly decides to dive into bed for sexual gymnastics with a grouchy Philip Bosco, only to be violently, some may say, gratuitously interrupted by old stock exchange Satan himself, all attempts at creating a genuine alternative to the buddy cop thriller appear to have been long since buried under the need for a suitably frenzied climax. Bigelow is big here on fetishism, heavily-stylised images and the look of the city at night. A little restraint would, however, have made this entertaining enough renter a considerably bigger and better proposition.