I was half taken and half irked with Brian DePalma‘s Carrie when I first saw it in ’76. But the bit that happens at 6:33 made me jump out of my seat, and I was thereafter sold on the idea of DePalma being a kind of mad genius. I was gradually divested of this view in subsequent years, sad to say. Actually by The Fury, which was only two years later.
To me DePalma was at his craftiest and most diabolical in Greetings, Hi, Mom, Sisters, Phantom of the Paradise and Carrie. Bit by bit and more and more, everything post-Carrie was one kind of problem or another (except for Scarface).
