Amos Kollek’s trilogy had rapidly diminishing returns. The empathy of Sue fades with each entry, or perhaps it’s more that the mask imitating it drops lower each time, until by now it’s revealed as soap opera exploitation. The topics and characters are there for notoriety and an acclaim that eludes him. The convoluted series of events that befall Bridget expose it more than ever. Wike plays a caricature of an intellectually disabled man, wide eyed and wide gestured. And Thomson, usually the anchoring highlight of these films, can’t find the titular Bridget no matter how hard she tries. The character is flat and empty, a vessel for the next topless scene. Margolis is solid, but doesn’t get the chance to be more than that. The show stealing performance? Of course it belongs to the man I started this trilogy for. Reddick infuses his character with a charisma and presence that energizes the film whenever he’s on screen. It doesn’t help Kollek’s case that in this film instead of the one black man being an elevated saint he’s a violent thug of swagger literally named Black. But Reddick finds a glimmer of humanity in there, most of all in a last stare between him and Bridget that communicates more than the clumsy exposition heavy script ever could. The direction is fine enough but hardly astonishes, but at least the sound is easily the best it has been. There’s a reason that Amos Kollek has never become an acclaimed auteur even in cult film circles and even with being the son of Jerusalem mayor Teddy Kollek, which sure explains the foreign scenes. Amos struggles to even get a Wikipedia article, currently under dispute for notability. And it’s because he’s just not that good.