By Ken Tucker
Updated November 23, 1990 at 05:00 AM EST

Faye Dunaway, an urban architect stuck in a small town (her car broke down), witnesses a murder when she glances into a window late one night. She calls the cops, who don’t find a body in the apartment. But since she has called everyone in this hick burg a “lowlife,” they don’t put much credence in anything she says. Then someone starts stalking Dunaway, and, and, and — oh, it’s all too stupid. Dunaway is stiff and unsympathetic (she goes into a redneck bar and murmurs throatily, “Can you make a perfect Rob Roy?”). And the one suspect is the only dirty, sweaty, glowering guy in the movie. Silhouette is so slow, so systematically devoid of suspense, that I looked at the credits to make sure it wasn’t a previously undiscovered movie directed by Andy Warhol. Nope: Carl Schenkel dunnit. D-