Andy

The road trip has come to symbolize numerous things in the milieu of cinema USA. It’s freedom, self-discovery, escape, or denial. Whether from Rey, Hellman, Peckinpah, Malick, Reichardt, or as depicted in a sea of sex comedies, horror stories, or motorcycle gang flicks, the road has unspooled across celluloid landscapes as yellow paint races by and voluminous clouds however in the distance. Though far from specific to the U.S. such a story had come to inform many New Hollywood filmmakers and their subsequent acolytes. And at their core, they are films about uncertainty.

For much of Brian De Palma’s ten-year run from Sisters to Scarface he was positioned as the exemplar Hitchcock acolyte. Championed by Pauline Kael and rigorously appreciated by Robin Wood this run of nine films (plus or minus) has the reputation of some sort of magical constellation of New Hollywood technique, narrative pastiche, and “classical” film appreciation. Trading in improvisational comedy, raw suspense, sexual awakenings, criminality, and slashers, De Palma’s work was something to incense or inspire admiration.

First, there was Scream. Kevin Williamson’s brand of self-aware, pop culture savvy teens quickly found itself replicated or intimidated to varying effect. Suddenly posters featuring brooding, pursed-mouthed pretty people stared at passers-by while a splash graphic of an obscured slasher figure filled the background. It’s the sort of trend that got tiresome within a few years as it became apparent the resurgence of slasher films couldn’t hold a candle to Scream’s fun and complexity.