Within the rather limited narrative of psycho-sexual crime thrillers, there's only so many available plot twists, and barring the genre-defying film that beams in a crazed serial-killer Martian in the last act, there's no surprises left: We've internalized all the conventions from dozens of previous films, and before the second reel we're already sorting the red herrings into neat piles -- "too obvious," "will die too," "secret savior." And in a miserably scripted film such as this -- with only three possible suspects -- the "shocking" conclusion is virtually preordained. Ashley Judd is a newly minted San Francisco homicide detective with a week's worth of Oprah-ready sex-and-anger issues. Her ex-lovers are turning up dead, and her best suspect is ... gasp ... herself; she either has to clear her name or turn herself in. Working to help her (or are they?) are mentor Samuel L. Jackson, partner Andy Garcia and cop shrink David Strathairn. Hackneyed cop-shop dialogue, a storyline that ultimately can't bear a minute's scrutiny (the "why" of this film is truly a "what?") and uninspired directing from Philip Kaufman (who favors shooting the same "clues" again and again) turns Twisted into a pretty flat line.