Released at the turn of the millennium, Hollow Man promised a slick, effects-driven update on the classic H.G. Wells tale of invisible terror. With Paul Verhoeven at the helm—then still riding high off a string of bold, provocative genre films—and a high-profile cast including Kevin Bacon, Elisabeth Shue, Josh Brolin, and Kim Dickens, the ingredients were there for something groundbreaking. But 25 years later, Hollow Man feels less like a bold new direction and more like a misstep for one of cinema’s most iconoclastic directors.

The film follows brilliant but arrogant scientist Sebastian Caine (Bacon), who, obsessed with achieving the impossible, volunteers himself for an invisibility experiment that—shock—actually works. When the reversal proves ineffective, Caine slowly descends into unchecked id, using his newfound power for voyeurism, violence, and ultimately, murder. While the premise has classic sci-fi horror bones, Hollow Man seems content to coast on digital wizardry and B-movie sleaze rather than dig into the existential or psychological possibilities it flirts with.

For Verhoeven, a director never shy about subversion or satire, this was a surprising step into formula. After electrifying audiences with RoboCop (1987), Total Recall (1990), and the now-iconic (and initially maligned) Starship Troopers (1997), Verhoeven had made a name for himself as a master provocateur—balancing exploitation with critique, violence with intellect. Even his divisive Showgirls (1995) has been reappraised as audacious camp. Hollow Man, by contrast, is stripped of that sly intelligence, reduced to a glossy, FX-heavy thriller that seems to misunderstand its own potential.

That’s not to say the film is without merit. The visual effects—cutting edge for the time—were rightly praised, earning the film an Academy Award nomination. Bacon brings a creepy physicality to the role, especially once he’s rendered literally faceless. And Shue, Brolin, and Dickens do their best to ground a story that frequently loses interest in its characters the moment they’re not running or screaming. But the screenplay fails them, turning complex performers into disposable archetypes.

What’s most disappointing is how Hollow Man wastes its central conceit. The idea of invisibility as a metaphor for unchecked power, surveillance, and toxic masculinity is timely, but the film barely scratches at these themes. Instead, it leans into tired genre tropes—gratuitous nudity, generic lab-coat dialogue, and a final act that plays like a subpar slasher in a science lab. Verhoeven’s usual satirical edge is dulled here, replaced by something far more conventional and far less daring.

Looking back, Hollow Man marks the end of Verhoeven’s Hollywood phase—a seven-film run filled with wild highs and chaotic experiments. He would return to Europe for more introspective, boundary-pushing work (Black Book, Elle, Benedetta), suggesting that the rigid machinery of American studio filmmaking had finally worn him down.

The Prognosis:

Two decades on, Hollow Man stands as a footnote in an otherwise fascinating career: not quite terrible but deeply underwhelming. For a director who once gave us corrupt cops, brain-busting rebels, and fascist bugs, an invisible man never felt so forgettable.

• Saul Muerte