I was disappointed. Very, actually. Now that I’ve seen the film I’ve finally been able to read Matt Zoller Seitz’s review and comment thread about it, which make the case that this is DePalma’s masterpiece, his reexamination of his entire career to date–his Vertigo, in other words. I guess I can see that, but I disagree on the masterpiece part. Simply put, the deadly serious rumination on the effects of violence and oppression just doesn’t fit with a film that in large part is moved forward by all the usual DePalma mechanics: the hideously ugly killer, the slow-motion staircase shooting, the double- and triple- and quadruple-crosses, the unnoticed actions upon which the entire plot is eventually revealed to hinge, and so forth. You’ll find few greater admirers of DePalma’s thrillers than me, and I don’t believe those movies are all style/no substance, all violence/no thought as to the consequences of violence as his detractors argue. But the arch, angry way he approaches and examines violence within that context works within that context. Here his tone is sadness–Silence of the Lambs style sadness–and watching him try to paint with that palette while still using his old brushes is an incongruous and unsatisfying experience akin to listening to someone play Joy Division on a tuba. I wish it worked as well as Seitz says it does, I truly do. (Josh Hartnett and Hilary Swank are marvelous, though.)
