The Nightman tests the theory that steamy sex and visual panache are enough to triumph over annoying little ditties such as logical cosistency. Ted Marcoux, who spends more time running around shirtless than a Louisiana ditch digger, plays a 'Nam vet (the setting is late '60s) who husdes up a job as night clerk at a hotel run by Jenny Robertson and her Lolita-ish daughter, Joanna Kerns. Before you can say Baby Doll he's playing both ends against the middle in a triangle affair that winds up with momma having her brains aired out for spring cleaning with a .45 automatic. Judicious editing never reveals the culprit, but anyone who's seen enough erotic thrillers will guess that Ted's been set up as the sucker, the patsy, the fall guy.

Eighteen years later he shows up at Joanna's apartment, employed again as, you guessed it, the night man — and Joanna's receiving all sorts of anonymous gifts; reminders of her illicit affair with Ted. Someone forgot to sweep this script with a cliche detector. At this point, you'll want to start screaming "Move the hell out, you idiot!" but if movie characters followed the advice of their audiences there'd be more gratuitous nudity and less specious finales.

What keeps The Nightman from falling apart are some damn convincing performances, particularly Kerns, who ages from a naive and nimble teenager to panic-stricken adult. Simple addition of Ted's prison term would put the still-youthful Kerns and Marcoux hitting middle age, but plot holes like this are avoided in favor of intense carnal liasons, (tasteful nudity) stylish motifs and neat-o scene transitions; scattered about like so much cinematic pixie dust. The result is a film that's more entertaining than surprising, but still a far cry above the average direct-to-video "B" release.