As a die-hard De Palma fan who
loves Snake Eyes and can take or
leave Mission: Impossible, I was
unfazed by the negative buzz about Domino
before its unceremonious dumping onto VOD last week. Despite the received
wisdom that he’s not what he once was, De Palma never really had a fall from
grace because he never was a critical darling. His films are never nominated
for Oscars, (which of course is considered a badge of honor by people who care
about cinema), and the most prestigious things to ever happen to him were Piper
Laurie getting a Golden Globe for Carrie
and him somehow getting the job to direct an A-list cast in the ill-fated Bonfire of the Vanities. Even when he
has a big hit, like Mission: Impossible,
Tom Cruise gets the credit over De Palma. Nevertheless, despite a couple attempts
to wade into Oscar-bait territory, he has heroically persisted in mounting
projects that allow him to do what he loves; constructing ambitious set-pieces
expressing “pure cinema” with an arsenal of film techniques like split-screen, deep
focus and slow-motion. The dramatic elements are often the weakest aspects of
his films and it’s for the best when he strips them down to bare minimums to
make room for the set-pieces. Critics bellyache that his plots aren’t hole-free
and that the characters aren’t multi-faceted, and this is all true. Actors are
not the stars of De Palma films, he is; and there are times when you can tell
that they’re beginning to realize the world doesn’t revolve around them and
that they are merely brush strokes in another artist’s mural. None of this is
to say that his films are without heart; it’s just that the camera and the
editing do the heavy lifting instead of the actors. Most modern audiences aren’t
used to this kind of expressionism in cinema, and therefore tend to assume that
something is wrong. For instance, in an early scene in Domino, a slow, diagonal zoom zeros in on a holstered gun that the protagonist,
a cop, has set aside while he is distracted saying goodbye to his girlfriend.
Anyone else would have focused on the couple and then included one or two
inserts of the gun, but De Palma’s method instills a gradual sense of unease,
caused by the combination of the angle and the movement of the camera, that
makes us understand that the hero is about to make a mistake that will effect
the rest of the story. Similarly, moments later, the same character is faced
with a dilemma in which he can either stay with his wounded partner or chase
after the man who assaulted him. It’s the exact situation we know well enough
from any number of crime dramas, and the decision is quickly made (pretty much
always in favor of chasing the perp) and then forgotten about. Here, though,
the cop is not sprinting after his target over cars and gates but slowly
inching along a roof’s drainpipe, giving him time to look back at his injured partner
every few seconds and continue to agonize over whether or not he’s doing the
right thing. Things like this are why De Palma’s films are so rich, and why
even a lesser film of his is infinitely more valuable than a “success” by
journeyman directors. Ever since Murder á
la Mod (1968), his little-seen first feature, De Palma has been fascinated
with the element of voyeurism inherent in cinema, and it appears again and
again from Sisters and Dressed to Kill up through his most
recent works Passion and Domino. Walking a tightrope between
melodrama and satire, Domino depicts
a world in which almost all human activity is mediated by cell-phone cameras,
live video feeds and internet streaming. De Palma’s trademark split-screen is
unneeded in this film because so often multiple screens show simultaneous
activity via two-way live-chat video screens and security camera feeds on
computer monitors. In one of several bravura sequences in the film, a jihadist
suicide shooter mounts two cameras to her assault rifle – one aimed at her
targets and one at herself – and proceeds to mow down attendees of a film
festival premiere. Without being preachy or exploitative in this age of increasingly
frequent public massacres, the scene draws clear parallels between the notions
of shooting with guns and shooting with cameras, especially if they’re
happening simultaneously and for more-or-less the same purposes; to shock and
horrify and to vent rage. The layers of symbolism get heavy but don’t reach the
breaking point even in the film’s climax that takes place in a bullring in
Spain. In the middle of an antiquated sport characterized by spectators in
stands watching the ritualistic killing of an animal, terrorists document their
next attack, a planned C-4 explosion in the middle of the crowd, with a drone
camera, to preserve it for later public viewing. Digital video is used for everything
in this film. The cops study ISIS beheading clips on their computers. Romantic
selfies on a cell phone are proof of a love affair. Live video of the interrogation
of a child serves to coerce his father into cooperating with the authorities.
And so on. Now in his late 70s, De Palma may not live long enough to see
himself vindicated, but I believe that ultimately his films will be as
cherished as Hitchcock’s and Kubrick’s are now; neither of whom were as worshipped
in life as they have been posthumously. De Palma’s films are pleasurable and
satisfying because you are never unaware while watching them that it wasn’t ambition
or greed that motivated them, but only De Palma’s sheer passion for the art of
film; an art that he rightly believes very few ever attempt to maximize to its
potential. Even if Domino is
second-tier De Palma, all that means is that I’ll probably only watch it a
couple dozen more times before I die.
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