Misunderstood Masterpieces: Femme Fatale

Posted by Will Helm on 09.17.2003

…or, Remember When Brian De Palma Was Good?

Have you ever seen Carrie? Dressed to Kill? Scarface? The Untouchables? Did you know that all of these examples of violent cinema at its finest were directed by the same man, Brian De Palma? Well, now you do. As one of the four wunderkind American directors of the late ‘70s and early ‘80s (Spielberg, Scorcese, and Lucas being the other three), De Palma had a great run of well-directed films during that time period. Borrowing heavily from Hitchcock, with nods to the bloodbaths of Peckinpah, De Palma created neo-noir masterpieces filled with intense characters and ample amounts of gore. Many of his works still leave an impression in filmmaking even to this day, whether it be the prom scene, Michael Caine in drag, “Say ‘ello to mah little friend,” or the shootout on the steps. The aforementioned films, save one, all share another distinction that adds to their luster: except for Dressed to Kill, none of them were written by Mr. De Palma.

You see, the films directed by Brian De Palma are generally well made pieces of cinematic magic. The films written and directed by him, however…not so much. The Phantom of the Paradise, from 1974, is a campy retelling of the story of “Faust” with elements of The Phantom of the Opera mixed in. It could be the other way around, though; I’ve seen it and I can’t quite figure it out. Anyway, you’d never guess that this would be the same guy who directed one of the better Stephen King adaptations two years later. 1981’s Blow Out had the awesome power of post-1970s Travolta (which, in all honesty, wasn’t much), while three years later, the unbelievably incomprehensible Body Double, featuring the living embodiment of Betty Boop, Melanie Griffith, debuted. I’ve seen it a bunch of times, not just for the obvious reasons, and I still don’t understand it. Then there’s always 1992’s Raising Cain, with the specter of an evil John Lithgow playing a zillion different people. Ooh, scary. Especially if he has a Sasquatch as a henchman and threatens Santa Claus, but only because he’s a college professor from another planet. More recently, there’s Snake Eyes, from 1998; it’s a Rashomon-inspired crime thriller with some boxing, myopia, and Nicolas Cage. In all honesty, I’ve never seen it…but I don’t think many others did either.

Which (finally) brings us to our movie: 2002’s Femme Fatale. Made by the “master of the erotic thriller” Brian De Palma, this film’s possibilities for success were dubious from the start, especially since “erotic thriller” usually means “direct-to-video” or “late nights on Cinemax.” And, while the lead actress was not Shannon Tweed or Shannon Whirry, or anyone named “Shannon” for that matter, it was still an unproven commodity: model/actress Rebecca Romaine Lettuce, who, in all honesty, is only a good actress when covered in blue paint. Oh…her name’s Rebecca Romjin-Stamos? Eh, who cares? She’s got Antonio Banderas there with her to pick up the slack. Can Zorro the Spy-Father rescue the hot chick from the jaws of bad cinema? Stay tuned, true believers…

In the opening scenes of the film, we learn an important lesson: naked hot chicks dig old movies, preferably with French subtitles. I guess that’s one of those tricky little cinematic devices to tell us that we’re in France without actually stating it. Chalk one up for Mr. De Palma! Anyway, the as-yet-unnamed naked hot chick (Romjin-Stamos) enjoys the noir (in the true sense of the word, as it is France) until rudely interrupted by an anal-retentive, lingo-spewing black Frenchman (Eriq Ebouaney). I suppose we’re left to assume that something important is going on, as there wouldn’t be that much lingo being spewed otherwise. And what is the important thing? The Cannes film festival, of course! If Femme Fatale were showing there, I’m sure one critic would call it “le bombe” while Joel Siegel calls it “explosive!” Then again, he calls every damned movie “explosive,” so we’ll take what he says with a grain of salt. It’s better than Joe Morganstern, who will like any movie that has a HOT CHICK in it, or Roger Ebert, who actually wrote a movie about HOT CHICKS (but that’s another review). Sadly, the Cannes festival is not like it used to be, as there aren’t enough people there chain-smoking while wearing black turtlenecks. There is another HOT CHICK (Rie Rasmussen) wearing some diamond snake or something and little else, so perhaps that makes up for it.

While all the red carpet glamour and nudity is going on, quasi-Classical music plays accompanies a bunch of other people doing your typical espionage-type stuff: stealing keys, crawling around ductwork, speaking into headsets. You know, just once I’d love to see a low-tech espionage movie, with stuff like milk-carton periscopes and the like. You could hire Mr. Wizard to direct and Richard Dean Anderson to star…or not. Luckily, just in case the movie was in danger of turning into Mission: Impossible, which was also directed by De Palma, HOT CHICK #1 (Romaine Lettuce…let’s call her character “Laure Ash” right now) and HOT CHICK #2 (Rasmussen…her name’s “Veronica”) have some lesbian fun in the ladies’ room. And for the ladies, some random French guy gets tasered while relieving himself. Ooh, sexy. As all of this transpires, everyone else sits in the theatre watching a pretentious French film. I bet there’ll be a lot of smoking, berets, and an unhappy ending.

If you thought that everything was going smoothly for our Sharper Image-gadget-using friends, you’d be wrong, because “there’s a problem.” At least with the whole espionage thing, I assume; lesbianism is alright in my book. Not that I have a book, mind you…but one would be nice. Hint, hint. Anyway, whoring aside, espionage-guy-in-the-ductwork (Edouard Montoute) uses his nifty laser to snuff out the lights so we can have some fun in the dark! Laure fends off Black Tie (that’s the black Frenchman’s name…no, really!) and then escapes; it turns out that it was all a double-cross as the “bitched” set up the accomplices. OK, honestly now, you’d think that, in a first-run movie directed by a fairly well-respected filmmaker, that someone would take the time to SPELL CHECK THE SUBTITLES! I’m not kidding here…on the version I watched, the subtitles read “The bitched double crossed us.” “The BITCHED double crossed us.” “BITCHED.” Unless this all has some profound French meaning that I’m missing, like if Jean-Paul Sartre came out and said “The bitched double crossed us, and then I existed,” then I’d understand. If not, then it’s just plain sloppy.

I might not be too far off with the Sartre reference, as the fugitive Laure dons a black wig and turns stereotypically French. Some guy named Nicolas Bardo (Antonio Banderas) takes pictures while we have “Fun with Split-Screen!” Ah, one of De Palma’s trademarks, I presume. Supposedly the other is doppelgängers…hmmm, we shall see. Laure goes into a church and some random French couple starts freaking out and yelling “Lily!” at her. Maybe they mistook her for the florist. Meanwhile, some guy gets punched out by ductwork-man. Laure gets suckered into the punched-out guy’s apartment and is thrown through a plate glass ceiling. Surprisingly, miraculously, and totally in keeping with every other damned movie that I’ve reviewed, she’s PERFECTLY UNHARMED! So unharmed, even, that her wig stays on. Luckily, the crazy French couple rescues Laure, even though she probably could have gotten up and walked out on her own. I guess you need to take some liberties to drive the plot.

Laure’s in bed at the French couple’s house while they repeatedly call her “Lily.” Seriously, they really should stop that; it’s just plain creepy. Although maybe “Laure” is actually pronounced “Lily” in French…or not. I mean, I took French for three years in high school and the only sentence I can remember is “Je ne porte pas des pantalons,” so you can’t go by me. Anyway, just because there hasn’t been any near-nudity in about, oh, twenty minutes, Laure decides to take a bath. Whilst relaxing in the tub, the movie turns all French, with weird music and sound effects and jump cuts galore. Truffaut would be proud. In keeping with the surreal theme, some girl shows up as it starts spontaneously storming while the sun is still out. Unless those are the lightest storm clouds ever, it’s bright enough in the window to assume the sun is still shining. Bad, movie, bad! Random girl takes her aggressions out on some helpless bouquets and then plays Russian roulette and loses. Terry Kath would be proud. Anyway, I guess that was Lily (also played by Hedda Lettuce), your doppelgänger du jour. Laure, class act that she is, steals Lily’s identity and high-tails it to the airport, where she gets to fly first class to the U.S. and cuddle Peter Coyote. OK, not really Peter Coyote per se, but his character, insanely-rich-yet-boring programmer-turned-politician Bruce Watts. I guess that explains why he’s so uncomfortable having a HOT CHICK with a penchant for nudity and lesbianism clinging to him: once a dork, always a dork.

Cut to seven years later, where we have yet more “Fun with Split-Screen!” in Paris. And, as before, Nicolas is on the scene again. It seems he’s a paparazzo whose assignment is to snap a photo of the new U.S. ambassador’s wife. It seems he knows that the ambassador is some guy named Bruce Watts, which should clue you in to who his wife is. Our suspicions are confirmed shortly later, as Nicolas gets the shot of Mrs. Lily Watts, but only because her bodyguard (Gregg Henry) is a complete tool who can’t run more than ten yards…or is that seven meters? It is France, after all. You know, metric system, Royale with Cheese, all that jazz? Anyway, we also learn that, after seven years, Black Tie is still alive! And his tuxedo is still bloody. Really, you’d think a guy with a name as classy as “Black Tie” would find some time to launder it. Then again, it turns out that he was in prison. Oops. Sorry about that, Mr. Tie. Please take pity on this fool. Oh, wait…that’s Mr. T. My bad.

Back in Paris, average Parisians go about their daily lives while camouflage-clad women walk loudly down the street. No, I’m serious! Amazingly, the camouflage-wearing woman can run in high-heeled boots, but not well enough to escape Black Tie and Racine (he’s the ductwork guy). She gets thrown in front of a truck for her troubles. Remember that for later, please. Meanwhile, there’s tension at the embassy, as it seems that Lily is a battered wife. Uh-oh. It seems that Nicolas and Black Tie are there too. Those dudes sure are quick. Lily, perhaps to ease the pain of domestic abuse, goes to the red-light district, with Nicolas in tow. For having a little dinky motorcycle, he just flies down those streets. Much to the chagrin of lesbian lovers everywhere, it seems that Lily is only there to purchase a fine firearm, not a hooker. Sorry guys…maybe next time. She then goes to a hotel, and Nicolas is quickly there as well. Now really, where does being a paparazzo end and the stalking begin?

Nicolas, sensing trouble as if he were Spider-Man, pretends to be gay to worm his way into Lily’s room. Of course, this is nothing new for Señor Banderas; it was his claim to fame back in Spain. And, anyway, Lily/Laure did pretend to be a lesbian earlier, so I guess it’s only fair. Nicolas, suave guy that he is, talks Lily down from doing…um, something, and they decide to go get a cup of coffee together. OK, now, officially, this movie makes absolutely no sense. All of this camaraderie ticks off Lily’s security guy, who has been following the two the whole time. Nicolas entertains Lily with a story, which seems to get her all hot and bothered. Because, you know, there’s nothing sexier than a scantly clad asthmatic with a black eye. Hey, to each their own, I guess. It was all a ruse, however, as the “bitched” doublecrosses Nicolas as well, framing him for stealing her Mercedes. You know, I could make the requisite racial-profiling joke, but that’s just beneath me. Lily celebrates by ordering some champagne from room service and then bludgeoning a hotel worker with the bottle.

Luckily for Nicolas, Ambassador Watts gets him off the hook for the grand theft auto… or is it le theft auto grande? As for his motives…I really have no clue. This film is still far too confusing. And we really didn’t have to get a smarmy police inspector involved, either, as he serves no purpose other than yelling at Nicolas and arguing with the Ambassador and his staff. Yeah, that was really vital to the plot. Back at chez Bardo, it seems that someone has sent Nicolas a friendly e-mail. I bet it’s just porn or an advertisement for all-natural Viagra. Actually, I’m wrong; it’s just some kidnapping plot spam instead. It seems that this film, just like every other damned film I’ve reviewed, is just another plot about vengeance. Perhaps they should just start marketing vengeance itself, with the motto: “Vengeance: Everyone’s Out For It.” Or not.

On some random bridge spanning the Seine, Nicolas meets with Laure. We can tell she’s no longer Lily because she’s dropped the excruciatingly bad false accent. Now if she could only drop the excruciatingly bad acting, we’d be in business. Even though Laure takes some time to explain what’s going on, this is still all too damned confusing for that to help any. You know, there’s a huge difference between good and surprising plot twists and just being overly convoluted. Screenwriters of the world, heed my warning! Laure and Nicolas make out again…although perhaps not “again” as before he was making out with Lily. Yeah, I told you it was confusing. Anyway, they go into a bar, where Laure flirts with a hairy Frenchman named Napoleon. She proceeds to drag him into the back and give him a lapdance. It is at this point that I wonder if seeing a scantly clad woman gives him a Bonaparte. Ahem. And, unsurprisingly, Nicolas is there as well! OK, here’s one of the great problems with noir plots: when faced with a stereotypical femme fatale, why is it that the men NEVER get the hell away from them as quickly as possible? Damned male sex drive…no good ever comes of it (at least in movies). And, proving that he has to be the alpha-male in this picture, Nicolas rumbles with Napoleon to Laure’s amusement…followed by some good, old-fashioned rough sex on a pool table. Now that’s class.

Now, after nearly an hour and a half or so, Laure FINALLY explains just what’s been going on so far. It turns out that this whole charade is just an elaborate plot to extort money from her husband. Wouldn’t it just have been easier to get a good divorce lawyer? He’s a billionaire and therefore Lily would be entitled to, at most, fifty percent of his net worth…meanwhile, she’s faking her own kidnapping and only asking for ten million dollars. Talk about selling yourself short! Then again, the lapdances, makeout sessions, and rough sex may have hurt her case just a bit. All of this debating really doesn’t matter, as Laure ends up killing her husband on the aforementioned bridge and then plugs Nicolas as well. What a “bitched!” Oh, and Lily’s security guy seemingly beats up Black Tie and Racine, but that’s all a ruse as the two revenge-seeking Frenchmen see that Laure gets her comeuppance in the form of a naked dip in a swimming pool. You see, when Black Tie and Racine throw Laure off the side of the bridge, instead of clothed and in the Seine, she ends up naked and in what appears to be a swimming pool. Uh-huh, whatever, movie.

Of course, you know the movie couldn’t end like this, so Laure wakes up back in the bathtub! Oh geez…I hope we don’t have to go through the whole thing all over again. It seems that the preceding 95 minutes or so were all a dream…damned “Dallas” precedent. Get me the head of J.R. Ewing, pronto! In this new reality, however, Laure convinces Lily not to blow her own brains out and instead go to the U.S. to start a new life. On the way, Lily meets a kindly overweight truck driver and gives him a crystal ball on a chain. Seven years later (oh crap, it IS starting again), random Parisians go about their daily lives and Nicolas still obsesses over Laure and her camouflaged lover…who still gets chased down by Black Tie and Racine. Some things never change; however, this does, as the kindly overweight truck driver is blinded by the light glaring through the crystal ball and causes Black Tie and Racine to be impaled on the back gate of a conveniently placed box truck. Meanwhile, it turns out that the camo-girl was Victoria all along, which makes Nicolas ask Laure to join him for a drink…and now I assume someone lives happily ever after. That is, if this movie made any sense.

There are times when the best of intentions can go horribly awry. The making of this film represents one of those moments. If you really pay attention, you can see just what De Palma’s intention was; he attempts to mix the atmosphere of the classic Hitchcock he had emulated in the past with the filmmaking techniques of the French surrealists. There had to be a reason why the movie was set in Paris, right? Anyway, you would think that a combination of those two influences would add up to a greater whole, but you’d be wrong. Instead, what we’re subjected to is a convoluted and confusing plot that ends up canceling itself out, a lead actress who can’t act well enough to pull off the rigors of the role (there’s more to it than just being a HOT CHICK), and a terribly emasculated male lead who is just there to be repeatedly set up like a patsy. Of course, we also have the needless sequences like the snotty French inspector and his interrogation, as well as the security guard’s frequent asides and outbursts. Cut out the extraneous material and what remains is a streamlined little flick…not a good film, mind you, but streamlined nonetheless. At least we can rest assured because De Palma’s next movie, Toyer, isn’t written by him. Whew.