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So it is that Brian De Palma, that smut-peddling misogynist with a fetish for women naked or dead or, preferably, bothrecuperates the maligned figure of the Rebecca romijn femme fatale lick fatale and makes his own grand feminist statement.

Laure is an object of desire; she exists to be looked at. She barely manages more than a sentence through the first reel or so of the film. Rebecca Romijn-Stamos, in an audacious bit Hegre art flora and alex casting, brings nothing beyond her formidable body—no star persona, no real talent—to a role that, though it requires chameleon-like transformations and a full repertoire of European accents, barely registers in terms of character.

In the heist that opens the film, a fit of heavy lesbian erotics in a ladies room at the Rebecca romijn femme fatale lick Film Festival, natch between Laure and Veronica Rie Rasmussena woman wearing a diamond-studded bodice, disguises a clever bait and switch: Girls gone wild demotivational dismantles the garment, piece by piece, dropping it to the floor for her apparent accomplice Eriq Ebouaney to replace with glass-studded knock-offs, but when she drops the bra, she switches the real one with the fake.

Her male accomplice takes the glass, and Veronica walks off wearing the diamond-studded bra. We miss the crucial exchange, even though it happens right in front of us. Just as her masterful plot unravels and Laure falls into the Seine River, plunging to her death, she awakens, seven years earlier, in a water-filled bathtub, from a dream in this case, a nightmare vision of her future.

Never mind that the dream is built into the visual fabric of the entire film. Laure falls asleep in the water atand from then on, every clock in the film is fixed to the same time The evidence is there; the question is Rebecca romijn femme fatale lick or not we see it. Laure knows, and understands, and uses what she learns from her dream-cum-intuition to save herself, Lily, and Nicolas. Those are the diamonds; that is her conspirator; this Rebecca romijn femme fatale lick a dream.

Fittingly, Laure finally gets the better of Rebecca romijn femme fatale lick men who are hunting her thanks to literal blindness—a flash of sunlight, refracted through a piece of jewelry, blinds a truck driver who drives the men into the spikes of a metal grate, a most violent and lethal penetration. Shortly before she seduces Nicolas, Laure does a short striptease for a man in the basement of a bar, as Nicolas watches from the other side of the doorway.

Then De Palma turns everything around. The other man loses control and lunges at her, and Nicolas, perhaps out of jealousy or some masculine impulse to protect Laure, jumps and attacks him. We watch her watching them, the fight visible only as a shadow play on the wall.

They do their little masculine dance, and she spectates with delight, applauding as it reaches its climax. Perspectives shift—the looked-at does the looking; power dynamics are reconfigured. Fetish becomes critique in this deadly game of transmuting identities and shifting realities, a veritable cinematic hall of mirrors.

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