Sisters (Brian De Palma, 1973)

If only every Brian De Palma film was like this. Sure, this one too has all the ingredients that everybody who loves his films always goes on about: Hitchcock pastiche; a recycling of familiar elements poised between parody and celebration; sheer abundant excess. But usually, for me, although the mixture passes the time well enough I end up with the feeling that said time would have been better spent with one of De Palma's sources instead. But not this time - sure, it's not actually better than any of the films it would love to be, but it contains genuine pleasures, laughs that aren't just smug excuses for really committing to anything, and a couple of authentic shocks. (And getting Hermann on board for the score was quite a coup.) Margot Kidder's French Canadian gives quite the performance; sure, one couldn't - and wouldn't want to - treat mental ilness this way nowadays, but it's not only used to give us a thrillingly delirious ride. The film also drops us off in an interesting place, very strangely poised between satisfaction, frustration, and bewilderment.