Passion. Great Erotic Fun That Doesn’t Hold A Candle To De Palma’s Best

After the experimental political polemic Redacted and the gun-for-hire mess The Black Dahlia, Brian De Palma has returned to what should be his comfort zone; a violent, erotic thriller which he actually wrote himself.

In fact, every scene of Passion seems to beg for a collective “return to form” proclamation. It’s got identical twins, split-screen, sumptuous ballet, labyrinthine dream sequences and obsession to spare, but ultimately, it still feels like an over-the-hill rocker playing all his hits from forty years ago. On one hand, everything lacks the energy that originally made it so powerful, but, on the other hand, the songs are still better than anything else written in the last decade.

That is to say, Passion is great fun, and occasionally kinda brilliant, but it still doesn’t hold a candle to Body Double, Dressed to Kill or even De Palma’s late-period fever-dream masterpiece Femme Fatale. And most likely, those who have never been locked in long, bitter arguments defending De Palma’s enormous contributions to cinema need not apply.

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