The Fury (1978)

The Fury is what happens when Brian De Palma turns a paranormal thriller into pure, operatic cinema: sleek camerawork, nerve-tight suspense, and sudden bursts of violence that feel both outrageous and strangely inevitable. It’s less interested in tidy sci-fi rules than in mood and momentum—an eerie, patient build where psychic power becomes a weapon, a curse, and a spectacle, all at once. Kirk Douglas brings bruised, desperate intensity, Amy Irving gives the film a human center, and John Cassavetes radiates charming menace, while John Williams’s score surges like a warning siren you can’t ignore. If you’re not in the mood for a grim, 70s-style conspiracy vibe and some genuinely shocking set-pieces, it may be too intense, but if you want a stylish, unnerving ride that only De Palma could stage, it’s absolutely worth the plunge.

The Fury is Brian De Palma trying to mash up a paranoid CIA thriller with teen psychic horror, and you can feel the ambition in the stylish set-pieces and the big, operatic performances (especially Cassavetes chewing the scenery). The problem is the story lurches from incident to incident with a lot of exposition, so the suspense doesn’t build as cleanly as you’d want and the pacing can feel fitful rather than gripping. If you’re coming for something as tightly wound and emotionally focused as Carrie, this may feel like a flashier, messier cousin that never quite locks in. But if you enjoy late-’70s genre weirdness, De Palma’s visual flair, and you don’t mind a plot that’s more spectacle than momentum, there’s still some fun to be had.