In one recurring dream I’ve had since childhood, I’m riding a bicycle and suddenly find myself going downhill. I pick up speed, then discover that the brakes on the bike aren’t working. The road becomes slick, and obstacles start appearing from every direction. If I stop, I know I’ll crash or fall off the bike. I have no choice but to keep moving, lest something very bad will happen to me. I always wake up just before I hit something.
Kidnap makes effective use of Louisiana’s expressways and interstates in creating its elemental suspense. The characters barely stop driving, and one sometimes gets the impression (as in Monte Hellman’s classic Two-Lane Blacktop) that the roads will simply go on forever. The roads make the human subjects seem anonymous. Berry and the kidnappers have no past or future when they’re caught up in the chase—their roles as pursuer and pursued usurp their humanity. This dynamic plays on the promise of freedom that’s long been associated with the open road, turning that dream of freedom into a nightmare of isolation. (It also inverts a common horror-movie scenario in which the protagonist must flee indefinitely from a murderous assailant.) When Berry does stop to ask for help from the police, her efforts prove useless. Circumstances force her to continue on her own.
