Brian De Palma's "Femme Fatale" could be considered a form of cinematic rebellion, a bold departure from the confines of Hollywood and critical expectations. It's the first film the director crafted outside the U. S., and with the burden of studio constraints and endless supervision lifted, one can sense a feeling of liberation in the creative indulgence that permeates every frame of this film.
Returning to his beloved genre, De Palma creates a modern film noir, weaving an intricate plot laden with double-crossings and, of course, the quintessential femme fatale. Some might argue that the film prioritizes style over substance, but that critique would miss the point - in this film, the style is the substance. And by God, what gorgeous style it is.
The movie stands as a testament to De Palma's brilliance as a visual storyteller. The first +40 minutes unfold with minimal dialogue, yet the narrative remains crystal clear. The film opens with a 20-minute heist sequence at the Cannes Film Festival, accompanied by legendary composer Ryuichi Sakamoto's winking riff on Ravel's "Bolero." If all heist movies would be directed with this much technical bravura, I might just give that hackneyed genre another chance. That thrilling opening may be the standout sequence of the film, but De Palma barely gives the viewer any room to breathe, as it's just one stunning set piece after the other. Employing signature stylistic elements, such as split screens, split diopters, unconventional camera angles, hypnotic long takes, clever editing, and extended slow-motion sequences, De Palma throws everything but the kitchen sink at the audience to create a visual feast that captivates from start to finish.
Rebecca Romijn-Stamos delivers a standout performance as the titular femme fatale, Laure Ash (or later, Lily Watts). In another life, she would have made a great Hitchcock heroine. She is blond, smart, and sexy, a duplicitous seductress who plays every man around her like a fiddle. Laure, a contemporary incarnation of the classic noir archetype, can be wickedly cruel and appears to be deeply nihilistic, yet we find ourselves rooting for her. In true noir tradition, she is surrounded by other corrupted characters with double agendas, such as a voyeuristic photographer (it's a De Palma film after all), two vengeful criminals, and a mysterious lady friend.
The third act reveal, which I can imagine being a point of contention for many viewers, may feel like a cop-out, but it's the sort of cheesy twist that somehow works within the context of this film. The story shouldn't be taken too seriously here either way. As the plot becomes increasingly convoluted and we lose track of its many intricacies (again, true to the noir tradition), the narrative becomes secondary to the film's primary focus - the art of storytelling itself. This film isn't about the story; it's about how the story is told.
In conclusion, "Femme Fatale" is quintessential De Palma, for better or worse. Adored by fans as a triumph of visual storytelling, it may face dismissal from detractors for its perceived lack of conventional substance, like character development or thematic depth, its ridiculous plot, or its ostensible male gaze towards women. Do not be fooled though by this master of deception. "Femme Fatale" may be deftly disguised as sleazy, soft-core Eurotrash, yet behind the veneer of gratuitous nudity and a pulpy plot unmistakably lies filmmaking craft of the purest quality. It's an utterly cinematic experience that demands appreciation for its unapologetic commitment to visual storytelling, which is ultimately what film as a medium is about.
Returning to his beloved genre, De Palma creates a modern film noir, weaving an intricate plot laden with double-crossings and, of course, the quintessential femme fatale. Some might argue that the film prioritizes style over substance, but that critique would miss the point - in this film, the style is the substance. And by God, what gorgeous style it is.
The movie stands as a testament to De Palma's brilliance as a visual storyteller. The first +40 minutes unfold with minimal dialogue, yet the narrative remains crystal clear. The film opens with a 20-minute heist sequence at the Cannes Film Festival, accompanied by legendary composer Ryuichi Sakamoto's winking riff on Ravel's "Bolero." If all heist movies would be directed with this much technical bravura, I might just give that hackneyed genre another chance. That thrilling opening may be the standout sequence of the film, but De Palma barely gives the viewer any room to breathe, as it's just one stunning set piece after the other. Employing signature stylistic elements, such as split screens, split diopters, unconventional camera angles, hypnotic long takes, clever editing, and extended slow-motion sequences, De Palma throws everything but the kitchen sink at the audience to create a visual feast that captivates from start to finish.
Rebecca Romijn-Stamos delivers a standout performance as the titular femme fatale, Laure Ash (or later, Lily Watts). In another life, she would have made a great Hitchcock heroine. She is blond, smart, and sexy, a duplicitous seductress who plays every man around her like a fiddle. Laure, a contemporary incarnation of the classic noir archetype, can be wickedly cruel and appears to be deeply nihilistic, yet we find ourselves rooting for her. In true noir tradition, she is surrounded by other corrupted characters with double agendas, such as a voyeuristic photographer (it's a De Palma film after all), two vengeful criminals, and a mysterious lady friend.
The third act reveal, which I can imagine being a point of contention for many viewers, may feel like a cop-out, but it's the sort of cheesy twist that somehow works within the context of this film. The story shouldn't be taken too seriously here either way. As the plot becomes increasingly convoluted and we lose track of its many intricacies (again, true to the noir tradition), the narrative becomes secondary to the film's primary focus - the art of storytelling itself. This film isn't about the story; it's about how the story is told.
In conclusion, "Femme Fatale" is quintessential De Palma, for better or worse. Adored by fans as a triumph of visual storytelling, it may face dismissal from detractors for its perceived lack of conventional substance, like character development or thematic depth, its ridiculous plot, or its ostensible male gaze towards women. Do not be fooled though by this master of deception. "Femme Fatale" may be deftly disguised as sleazy, soft-core Eurotrash, yet behind the veneer of gratuitous nudity and a pulpy plot unmistakably lies filmmaking craft of the purest quality. It's an utterly cinematic experience that demands appreciation for its unapologetic commitment to visual storytelling, which is ultimately what film as a medium is about.
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