two-twenty

apropos of nothing | alex

As any of you in Amtrak's northeastern corridor are aware, Sunday's weather was shitty. Since this half of two-twenty has been afflicted by a low-level cold for the better part of a month, I decided to huddle inside under a blanket with soup and HBO’s (or was it Skin-a-max's?) lovely video-on-demand feature. The feature I demanded was Brian De Palma’s 2002 “thriller” Femme Fatale. My capsule review? I cannot believe that so many people’s time, so much film stock, and such an obscene amount of money were wasted in an effort to justify Rebecca Romijn-Stamos’ involvement in one protracted soft-core lesbian scene and one also-rather-lengthy strip tease.

Not that there is anything wrong with those things. It's just that there's no reason to waste two hours of your life and a bit of your sanity when a quick web search will net you the same results:

See? Seriously, this was really bad. And the saddest part was that you could see how hard De Palma was trying. Oh well. We'll always have Scarface.

Don't believe me? I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.

Femme Fatale review | Hollywood Bitchslap