All of which is to say, Branagh is having a very good time showing off. So is Frank, whose bonkers narrative takes a giant, surprise turn around the 75-minute mark, and again another 15 minutes later. Branagh follows him unto the breach, and into not one but two deliriously overcooked suspense climaxes – wittily intercutting the two timeframes and finally putting them into sync – indulging in shootings, stabbings, slow-motion, cross-fades, silhouettes, and tension galore, scoring the whole thing with a literal opera. (Here and throughout the picture, Patrick Doyle’s score is both thrilling and hilarious.) There is, it has become clear by this point, no such thing as “too much” in Dead Again.
And that is a compliment. Like the aforementioned De Palma, Branagh is leaning in to his genre, pushing each moment, elongating the beats, taking pleasure in toying with us purely for the pleasure of toying with us. His film is both a good mystery movie and a good movie-movie; its sheer “movieness” is what gives the picture its kick. As his career progressed, Branagh may very well have made better films than Dead Again. But he never made another one this fun. {read}