Femme Fatale

TIFF [2002]

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(USA/FRANCE 2002)
Written and directed by Brian DePalma
Cast: Rebecca Romijn-Stamos, Antonio Banderas, Peter Coyote, Gregg Henry

Veteran thrillermeister Brian DePalma has been attending the Toronto International Film Festival since its inception, but this year marks the first time he’s come to actually promote a film of his own. And not one buried in the generic “Contemporary World Cinema” programme, either—his latest, “Femme Fatale”, was awarded the prestigious spot of Closing Night Gala.

I’m not sure what the folks who forked out over $250 a ticket for this event are feeling, but it is with much regret that I report that, for me, “Femme Fatale” came off as another lazy “Greatest Hits” rehash from one of our great and most under appreciated film stylists, often more frustrating to bear than his last anonymous studio sell-out “Mission To Mars”. DePalma has pulled this one before, with 1992’s “Raising Cain”, a grating career homage/self-parody that left me (and presumably others, yes?) completely cold, and mildly insulted.

Quentin Tarantino famously defended “Raising Cain” on “The Charlie Rose Show” as the director’s venomous statement to audiences that he was “bored with thrillers”. I don’t disagree, but neither can I tolerate such a cynical approach from an artist who has asked an awful lot of forgiveness from his supporters: DePalma could have simply written an article to “Film Comment” instead and saved his long-time, devoted champions of “Carrie”, “Blow Out”, and “Dressed To Kill” their valuable time and money. I got the impression during “Femme Fatale” that the director was sending a similar “screw you” message, perhaps miffed over his fan base’s collective indifference to his last ten year’s worth of studio pictures, “Mission: Impossible” and “Snake Eyes” among them (not me, I still think his 1994 Pacino vehicle, “Carlito’s Way”, ranks as one of his best ever).

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While I have many problems with “Femme Fatale”, I’m not going to ruin any major twists or spoil its central, and very risky, conceit. The plot goes something like this: Laure Ash (Stamos), double-crosses her partners during an elaborate jewelry-heist at Cannes, and escapes with the loot. When she eventually is cornered by her pursuers and left for dead, she engineers a major identity switch (here beginneth the “risky conceit”) and flees to America, where she marries a software magnate (Coyote) and begins a new life as a mysterioso trophy wife. Tabloid shutterbug Nicolas (Banderas) is hired to score an exclusive (and high-paying) photo of Laure’s alter ego, and before long, several life-and-death encounters force the icy beauty to reveal her true identity to him. Is this new life merely an act so Laure can rob her lovestruck hubbie of ten million dollars? Can Nicolas trust her to keep him enlisted, and alive, as a partner? By the time DePalma pulls a major third-act reversal, you’ll either be delighted at his cojones, or calling for his DGA card.

There are sequences in “Femme Fatale” as eye-popping and meticulously choreographed as the director’s sublime setpieces in “Blow Out”, “Mission: Impossible”, and ‘The Untouchables”, mini-masterpieces of cross-cutting, roaming Steadicam, and split-screens, sometimes as erotically silent as the museum seduction in “Dressed To Kill”, that really stand out against today’s Michael Bay-patented bombast. The truly breathtaking Cannes heist that opens the film drew applause from the press screening, a less-than-charitable arena where latecomers and early-risers rarely turn off their cell phones.

DePalma conceived of the project while attending Cannes last year, and raised the production funds independently so that he could maintain creative freedom. So while one could blame the lack of passion in “Mars” on the Hollywood summer movie machine, there’s nothing compromising DePalma here whatsoever. The heist, tellingly DePalma’s inspiring image for the entire film, is the key draw here and nothing that follows measures up. Stamos, while suitably blonde and beautiful, cannot muster up the Grace Kelly old-school sultriness the role often requires (she’s much more convincing in contemporary black leather and swearing), and a haggard Banderas looks emasculated and unsure of his function, slumming in what is essentially the “chick role”. The leisurely script hinges on DePalma’s favorite narrative devices: doppelgangers, dreams, and operatic coincidences, welcome individually in past chillers, but demanding an awful lot from the viewer when all crammed into one.

I miss the days where DePalma polarized viewers by pushing the envelope, not raiding his scrapbook. I want him to keep making movies, but “Femme Fatale’ feels more like a yard sale than a career revival.

- Robert L

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