By Michael Koresky, Jeff Reichert | November 28, 2006

A cinephile’s aesthetic or intellectual identity can be formed by his or her resistance to or alignment with De Palma’s sensibility.

By Keith Uhlich | November 27, 2006

A lap dissolve, joining Madeleine’s blood-soaked death mask with Bleichert’s tear-stained face resonates with unspoken guilt, a profoundly cutting emotional aftershock that Bleichert attempts, quite futilely, to fight.

By Elbert Ventura | November 27, 2006

Perhaps itself the victim of mutilation, The Black Dahlia never finds its own identity, the most unusual criticism I can conceive of for a De Palma film.

By Chris Wisniewski | November 26, 2006

In truth, De Palma is neither a misogynist nor a feminist: women are often his camera’s subject and its object, and his films trade on the Hitchcockian fascination with the cinematic image of woman as a locus of desire and violence, attraction and disturbance

By Nick Pinkerton | November 25, 2006

Where does De Palma stand? If he’s pandering, why is he so often unpopular? The ultimate badge of honor for a noteworthy American director: he has never won an Oscar, and he never will.

By Bernardo Rondeau | November 24, 2006

Graceful in its nearly clinical impersonality, Mission to Mars (2000) is De Palma-for-hire supreme: a CGI-dappled amusement flickering with faded traces of Spielbergian pathos but boasting a smooth, splendiferous surface and moving in an impressive array of ASC-amiable glides.

By Justin Stewart | November 23, 2006

Considering that Brian De Palma’s oeuvre is so crammed with bravura set pieces and “Mind if I rewind that?” spectacle, the fact that Snake Eyes (1998) contains so many of his most thrilling moments alone qualifies it for something higher than the lower-tier lumping it generally receives.

By Jeff Reichert | November 22, 2006

He’d flirted with big action set pieces in Scarface and The Untouchables, but still, Mission: Impossible, with its globetrotting team of spies and extensive digital effects work was certainly a leap.

By Matt Zoller Seitz | November 21, 2006

Everything about Carlito’s Way (1993) is improbable, starting with the fact that it’s a masterpiece.

By Michael Koresky | November 20, 2006

Disreputable and trashy, Raising Cain was a “comeback” only in as much as it was merely another jab in the eye of those who found his earlier thriller concoctions needlessly intricate, labyrinthine, and softcore skuzzy.

By Eric Hynes | November 19, 2006

Neither an aberration nor another bead on the necklace, The Bonfire of the Vanities (1990) was the culmination of De Palma’s steady climb to the top of a Hollywood heap already dominated by his generational peers.

By Justin Stewart | November 18, 2006

Time has only been kind to it, and now this most uniquely stylized of the 1980s American war movies is clearly worthy of a top-seeded spot in its category, as well as in its director’s vibrant oeuvre.

By Eric Kohn | November 17, 2006

The Untouchables’ self-consciously recycled genre tropes never really ignite—that is, until the climactic staircase sequence, a nod to the Odessa steps slaughter in Sergei Eisenstein’s 1925 Battleship Potemkin.

By Adam Nayman | November 15, 2006

Wise Guys contains nothing to rate with the dizzying heights of which De Palma is capable—everything from Carrie through Blow Out has at least one or two fantastic bits—but it inspires a kind of affection that the rest of the director’s cold-blooded canon rarely manages.

By Vicente Rodriguez-Ortega | November 14, 2006

The story goes that De Palma got extraordinarily sick of his buddies Spielberg and Lucas making the big bucks and tired of Coppola and Scorsese being exalted to the Olympus of cinematic auteurism, and that his response was a big “fuck you” to Hollywood in the shape of Body Double.

By Leah Churner | November 13, 2006

How did De Palma’s Scarface, a Hollywood extrapolation about minority machismo from 1983, become the apotheosis of gangsta symbolism?

By Andrew Tracy | November 12, 2006

His narrow gifts are so evident that it would be pointless to reiterate them. All his films require are the simple acknowledgement that the form he works in does not live and breathe with his particular exercises in it.

By Michael Koresky | November 12, 2006

Like John Travolta's Jack Terry, I remain, long after Blow Out’s closing credits, haunted by a scream—so piercing, palpable, so full of anguish.

By Michael Koresky | November 11, 2006

Dressed to Kill is the feverish sex-and-mutilation fantasy one might have after viewing Psycho and then overdosing on too much merlot and Chinese food.

By Michael Koresky | November 10, 2006

Home Movies is definitely traceable as a piece of De Palma mischief, but at best it seems a sketch, and at worst unwatchably, smugly makeshift, something that even De Palma’s most woebegone gambits avoid.

By James Crawford | November 9, 2006

The Fury is an urban reworking of Carrie’s notion of young adulthood as physical and psychological trauma.

By Jeannette Catsoulis | November 8, 2006

I don’t think De Palma has ever been given enough credit for dragging the patriarchal dread of female sexuality into the light of popular culture.

By Brad Westcott | November 7, 2006

Obsession nearly drips Hitchcock, so much so that while watching it I became preoccupied with the question of whether it’s even intelligible without the existence of Vertigo as an “intertext.”

By Travis MacKenzie Hoover | November 6, 2006

Phantom of the Paradise manages to be angel and devil in equal portions—the binary opposition of De Palma picture and De Palma words finally brought together to create a harmonious whole.

By Tom J. Carlisle | November 5, 2006

It has some genuinely terrifying moments, it keeps a tight noose around the audience’s collective psyche, and, yes, if you’re looking for it, it takes several Hitchcock films and puts them in a blender. What’s rarely discussed is the comedy.

By Nicolas Rapold | November 4, 2006

If you had to name some quality that allows the same man to make Dressed to Kill and Get to Know Your Rabbit, it would be his sense of a movie as an exquisite mechanism, all its parts (body and otherwise) whirring and shifting into place.

By Michael Joshua Rowin | November 3, 2006

For those familiar with the concept of a De Palma film, this early-Seventies independent curio is at once a complete departure from his barely more “mature” work and a perfect example of the ambivalent countercultural origins that fed New Hollywood’s eventual “maturity.”

By Dan Callahan | November 2, 2006

Dionysus (1970) is filmed on rough black-and-white stock, but its visual harmonies are elegant, sexy and surprising, exploratory yet rigorously controlled.

By Jeff Reichert | November 1, 2006

Given that Brian De Palma once openly proclaimed his desire to be the “American Godard,” there’s a certain irony to be gleaned from looking at how history has treated the earliest works of both filmmakers.