There is nothing drastically wrong with Requiem for Murder; in fact, it's a fairly competent, low-budget, independent thriller that moves from A to B to C with utter clarity and a greasy bit of style around the edges of the frame. Play Misty for Me it is not. Psycho it is not. Director Douglas Jackson is not Alfred Hitchcock and Molly Ringwald, bless her heart, is not Janet Leigh. To their credit, they do not try to be, and for that reason, Requiem for Murder ekes by with a barely passing grade. True, the awkwardly edited finale, set, cliché-like, to Tchaikovsky's Overture 1812, and the identity of the mystery killer are significant off-key notes in an otherwise predictably played genre offering. But Ringwald, who has aged into a somewhat bland, pouty Gillian Anderson persona, is suitable as the damsel in distress, although some audience members may wonder why every guy who meets or hears her goes all gooey. And Chris Mulkey, so deliciously fiendish in Psychopath, only gets to use about a tenth of his unctuous chrisma. All that said, somehow the movie never bores as it exploits B-movie thriller conventions.