FEMME FATALE (Brian De Palma, 2002)

Reviewed: November 10th, 2002

Sub Skinemax quality, and with a near total lack of skin. Might as well dip the celluloid in arsenic if the words written by Brian De Palma are to be found on any frame as I hereby challenge anybody to name a worse screenwriter with more than two feature length theatrical releases to their credit than this relentlessly perverted, dirty old man (who couldn't write a decent line of dialogue if his bank account depended on it). Sad thing is De Palma's perversion is so tame it's pathetic and boring, like a seventy-year old who mounts a convoluted half-hour operation just to furtively steal a glimpse of his grandson's girlfriend's thigh. Let's get this outta the way: total amount of Rebecca Romijn-Stamos nudity in Femme Fatale? One shot, a full frontal submerged in surreal, aqua blue, carbonated water with lots of bubbles covering key areas, sure to excite prison inmates and thirteen year olds alike. As for the rest of us: Femme Fatale is neither hot nor sexy nor deliciously lurid, just plain horrific and a true chore to sit through. Gotta hand it to De Palma though, he figured out a clever way to get some respected critics (Roger Ebert's **** review and Charles Taylor are the two bastards I personally blame most for dragging my ass into the theater after I had resolved not to step near what I knew would be the repugnant drivel it is) to recommend his film: have it make no fucking sense. Yes, all of De Palma's stylization is in tact (complete with pointless split screens and his beloved split-diopter shots). Yes, all of De Palma's referencing is in tact (Double Indemnity and Vertigo, to name two; what's that now, like the seventeenth De Palma film that quotes Vertigo?). And yes, there is no reason to give a shit. Only scene that brought any joy into my otherwise miserable two-hour existence was Antonio Banderas's hilariously awful 'hey look, ma, I'm effeminate and I'm trying to trick Stamos into letting me into her hotel room!'

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