Femme Fatale is an exception to this to this rule. There is no question that Brian De Palma's latest is a steaming pile, and you can smell smug all over what he thinks are clever film techniques (split screens, operatic slow motion, etc). But just before I started throwing stuff at the screen in a show of displeasure, something magical happened--I laughed. And once I started laughing at Femme Fatale, I couldn't stop. The resentment felt for losing two hours of my life to this confused, badly acted, illogical, exploitative jewel heist-cum-meditation on fate was replaced with the giddy revelation that I had become involved in a cinematic experience on par with Paul Verhoeven's Showgirls.
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