The Fury (Brian De Palma, 1978)

I'm closer to understanding why I cannot stand The Fury. The fireworks don't begin until 47 damn minutes into the film when Gillian (Amy Irving) has her staircase vision. (If you're going to tell me the first nosebleed or even the toy train scene are anything to write home about, then you've got a lot of calisthenics to do). And, okay, I dug the Celine and Julie Go Boating-ish vibe of Gillian's visions. But it's too little, too late. There need to be more "numbers" in the first half and all throughout. It's not preposterous enough! Femme Fatale is redonkulous from the very first scene (compare The Fury's opening scene and weep despite the great close-up of Cassavetes' feet). I knew Showgirls would be the greatest film of 1995 ten minutes into it. The Devil is a Woman astounds from frame one to frame last. Etc. And this is to leave out The Fury's prehistoric sexual politics. So despite all the smart people who dig if not adore this film, I'm moving on to campier pastures. Oh and one more problem: Andrew Stevens' body is underutilized so voilà:

Grade: C+