In the nail-biting climactic sequence of Brian De Palma’s 1981 thriller, “Blow Out,” Jack (John Travolta), a sound designer for low-budget, softcore slasher movies, races through the streets of Philadelphia, where a parade has gathered to celebrate 135 years since the Liberty Bell was last rung. He pushes past marching bands with their instruments held high and parade spectators decked out in red, white and blue regalia. The music and cheers blur into a low hum, drowned out by the deafening sound of a ticking clock only Jack can hear. A handful of precious seconds stand between justice and another innocent person falling victim to America’s rot. What a staggering picture: this single speck of righteousness, clawing through a sea of blind patriotism, praying that, this time, morality will prevail.
But it doesn’t. It can’t. De Palma may be best known for his stylistic trademarks and penchant for perversion, but he’s also one of American cinema’s great realists. (And, admittedly, my personal favorite.) His films treat themes of voyeurism, casual criminality and sexual debauchery with as much reverence as dreams and artistic process. De Palma paints pictures that don’t conflict so much as they coexist, like two sides of a coin — purity and debauchery, the real, politically sanctioned currencies of this country — fresh from the U.S. Mint.
