Look, ma, no tracking shots! Righteously pissed off about the war in Iraq, and in particular about an underreported incident in which a handful of American soldiers raped a teenage girl before killing her and her entire family, Brian De Palma divests himself of his sinuous stylistic tics for Redacted, which presents a fictionalized account of the event as witnessed via a wide variety of "new media." Much of what we see derives from the video diary of a movie-mad grunt who hopes to attend film school should he survive this tour of duty. But De Palma also interpolates a fake French documentary about checkpoints, news reports from Al-Jazeera, security-cam footage, self-righteous YouTube monologues, and even a remarkably credible-looking "soldier's wife" website, complete with visitor comments you have to squint to read. It's a formally ambitious approach to a dramatically powerful subject, which makes it all the more disappointing that nothing involving the characters seems even remotely believable.
For a while, I assumed De Palma was making a pitch-black comedy — "Barrage,"
the French bit, with its mournful strings and pseudopoetic voiceover, positively garrotes a particular strain of pompous European docmaking (Varda, Ophüls, even Herzog to some degree). But the joke was ultimately on me, since Redacted resorts to the same shameless pandering when it finally arrives at its tragic conclusion. En route, you're forced to endure a pretty lame exercise in phony testosterone, one that answers the question "What would Casualties of War look like if a group of third-year acting students turned it into bad theater?" De Palma claims that the acting is intentionally wooden, since the soldiers (played by a squadron of young unknowns) are performing for the camera, but that doesn't wash — they're just as overwrought and mannered when observed by security cameras of which they're clearly unaware. Thankfully, the web-based segments have a freshness that keep the enterprise from simply keeling over in embarrassment, and the crime itself, which is as close as De Palma gets here to a set piece, does possess a queasy intensity, thanks mostly to the actors playing the victims. What's more, you can't help but admire the attempt on some level. This is exactly the kind of movie that major American directors should be making right now. Except, you know, good.
— Mike D'Angelo