Top Box Office Movies - Femme Fatale

Femme Fatale (2002) Warner Brothers
1 hr. 52 mins.
Starring: Antonio Banderas, Rebecca Romijn-Stamos, Peter Coyote, Eriq Ebouaney, Gregg Henry
Directed by: Brian De Palma

Femme Fatale

Rating:

E-MAIL FRANK OCHIENG

Photo: Warner Brothers

Since some might think that it would be kind of blasphemous to question the usually astute and reliable filmmaker Brian De Palma then I will do the distinct honors. So what was writer-director De Palma thinking when he concocted this insipidly mundane and manipulative erotic thriller Femme Fatale? Did the moviemaking mastermind behind such intriguing fare like Blow Out, Scareface, and the super-charged Mission: Impossible drink too much cough syrup to the point where it left him uncharacteristically disoriented? Clearly, the lethargic and laughable Femme Fatale is a jittery piece of mockery that quite frankly has all the suspenseful and provocative allure of sniffing unwashed panties.

De Palma amuses his audience by unintentionally providing a frenetic farce that blatantly features needlessly flashy visuals and over-stylized set-piece designs. The badly stiff acting (witness the dimwitted dialogue) by its apparent disinterested cast members is shamelessly evident. And the nonsensical and belabored plot twists that have no verve behind their purpose is aided by the gimmicky moviemaking techniques that appear haplessly exhausting (split screens, slow motion camera speed, ultra-glossy photography, etc.). Overall, Femme Fatale doesn’t even have the common sense to turn this convincingly derivative action-adventure dud into an adequate camp session of sexuality and sabotage. De Palma’s high-voltage venture is utterly uninvolving despite its ridiculously sensationalistic vibes.

Bisexual beauty Laure Ash (Rebecca Romijn-Stamos) is a deceitful curvy jewel thief who ditches her accomplices after duping a Cannes film festival sweetie by stealing her precious stash of valued jewelry. But before Ash can spin her magical mischievous ways in securing the jeweled goods, she has a fun time being “cozy” with her willing and unsuspecting galpal courtesy of engaging in some “up close and personal” female footsie action. Never has a De Palma camera lens been so cooperative in showcasing a sensual cheap sex scene between two consenting adults since the sizzling taxi cab tryst in Dressed to Kill. Still, the voyeuristic tendencies here feel more exploitative than it does liberating. Or riveting for that matter.

In any event, the “switch-hitting” double-crossing diva is on the run from her perturbed partners whom she swindled during the initial caper. Through some implausibly convenient coincidence, Ash is able to switch places with a troubled look-alike as she (the identical woman) happens to possess the essential identification needed to flee Europe while escaping her detractors. And so Ash is off to America in an attempt to “start over” and further her agenda from there. It’s not long when Ash bumps into a wealthy software magnate (Peter Coyote) and falls head over heels for the cash-flowing cad.

Flash forward to seven years later where things have been looking rather up for the former crime-wave cutie pie. At this point in time, we find Laure Ash married to a newly prominent American ambassador to France. And of course being married to such a high profile figurehead means you’re taking a risky chance of being spotted in the public eye. Enter intrusive photographer Nicholas (Antonio Banderas). As part of the pesky paparazzi brigade, Nicholas decides snap a photo of the ambassador’s delicious-looking wife that eventually becomes plastered all over Paris. Naturally this alerts Ash’s former partners-in-crime as they plan to payback the hot-to-trot associate for the piece of the action she unceremoniously took from them. It doesn’t take long for the arbitrary and absurd fireworks to occur: obligatory car and foot chases a bound, blackmailing schemes are hatched, kidnapping ploys are planned, impulsive and tawdry love scenes are drawn out, etc. As for the ending of this dunderhead of a drama…well, let’s just say that it is so lackadaisical and uneventful to the point that it has to lift its hasty conclusive idea from the controversial Bobby Ewing plotline on the smash hit CBS-TV serial Dallas. For those of you who know what I’m referring to, you can see what De Palma’s numbing narrative is reduced to in terms of grasping for any sense of desperate imagination or inspiration.

Femme Fatale wants you to believe what a stylish and devilish fantasy adventure this motion picture really is. But De Palma’s cockeyed contrivance is far from the cunning caper it awkwardly goes out to masquerade as. This movie doesn’t have an original or stimulating bone it its generic cinematic body. And speaking of bodies, De Palma gets his hormonal kicks out of making sure that the camera gropes every sexy pore on Romijn-Stamos’s fleshy frame. True, there are worse things that one can complain about in this ludicrous thriller. Still, the thought of a Peeping Tom provocateur getting his jollies out of mistaking potent eroticism for that of a misguided peep show definitely signifies a lack of conceptual fortitude. Romijn-Stamos is acceptable eye candy—there’s no denying that sentiment. But De Palma shamelessly exposes the “healthy-looking” actress like she’s some leftover meatloaf in a dish waiting to be gobbled up by a hungry canine! As for Banderas, hasn’t he had enough torture with appearing in vapid velocity-driven vehicles? (for a quick reference, refer to his “rousing” part in the previously released Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever)

De Palma’s Femme Fatale is nothing but a low rent Run Lola Run or poor man’s La Femme NIkita.

As the film’s leads, both Romijn-Stamos and Banderas are undoubtedly pleasing to the movie masses as a couple of capable attractive players are concerned. But their chemistry has absolutely no sizzle or spark despite their sex appeal on screen. In fact, their passionate sex scenes together feel forced and predictable more then it does sensible and spontaneous. The performances are hindered by its hackneyed delivered lines by the bored actors that reinforce the paper-thin acting. There’s nothing remotely intriguing or caustic about what makes us care for these conflicting participants. Besides displaying Romijn-Stamos’s athletic assets through glossy-designed stripteases and having her cavorting with the Latin lothario Banderas as a way of spicing up the proceedings, there’s something completely missing to suggest that De Palma’s venomous venture is anything but viable.

Femme Fatale features a hot-blooded heroine that leaves us very cold and indifferent. In the long run, this tedious ride of titillating tension has all the seductive clout of a defective Victoria Secret bra.

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Frank Ochieng
© TheWorldJournal.com

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