Conspiracy Theorists Fixate on De Palma’s Snake Eyes, a 1998 Thriller

Conspiracy theorists are locked in on Snake Eyes, Brian De Palma’s 1998 thriller, because of a fictional assassination involving a character named Charles Kirkland. The name itself isn’t a public figure, but the scene has become a touchstone for viewers who read the film as containing predictive or parallel elements to real-world events. The discussion sits at the intersection of film lore and a broader late-1990s cultural moment in which cinema routinely tied surveillance, media influence, and public spectacle to contemporary anxieties.

Nicolas Cage plays a crooked New York City police inspector who finds himself drawn into the murder case that unfolds at a boxing match in Atlantic City. The setup is classic De Palma: a stadium filled with spectators, a web of deceit, and a camera that feels as much a participant in the plot as any character. The film’s most famous moment arrives in a 13-minute, unbroken tracking shot that sweeps Cage’s character through the arena, introduces the principal players, and establishes the film’s brisk tempo and stylish edge. That sequence is widely cited as a high-water mark in De Palma’s late-1990s work, a demonstration of his knack for kinetic staging, precise blocking, and information delivery through sheer cinematic motion.

The remainder of Snake Eyes shifts into a more conventional thriller cadence, a transition that colors its mixed critical reception. In the arc of De Palma’s career, the film sits between Carlito’s Way (1993) and Mission: Impossible (1996), two widely celebrated mainstream hits that helped define a “movie brat” era maestro entering the studio system with a bold visual program. In the documentary De Palma, the director muses that he isn’t sure he can top Carlito’s Way, a remark that underscored the tensions of his late-1990s output. Critics and scholars often note that while Snake Eyes includes several memorable, even audacious, sequences, the narrative drive can feel uneven after the opening act. The result is a thriller that is at once visually compelling and occasionally sprawling, delivering dazzling moments without always sustaining the same tight focus across its running time.

For viewers who approach Snake Eyes as a showcase of De Palma’s craft, the midsection offers a mix of bravura staging and familiar genre mechanics. The arena setting remains a rich playground for the director’s interests—power, performance, and manipulation—while Cage’s morally compromised protagonist provides a throughline that keeps the story tethered to a noirish core. Yet the film’s momentum wavers at times, and some sequences lean more on style than on propulsion. Even in its weaker stretches, however, Snake Eyes preserves a distinct atmosphere: glossy production, crisp sound design, and a sense that every frame is choreographed to signal illusion and control.

The broader cultural conversation surrounding Snake Eyes often positions the film alongside late-1990s thrillers that flirt with the era’s preoccupations about surveillance and the media’s role in shaping perception. The Truman Show anticipates reality television’s invasion of private life, while The Siege probes the use of fear to justify political responses. Snake Eyes contributes to that milieu not by presenting a sweeping social manifesto but by embedding its questions about truth, spectacle, and accountability within a high-gloss procedural. The assassination at the boxing venue becomes a weather vane for how audiences are invited to read power through the lens of cinematic performance. In that sense, its value endures as a case study in how a film can be stylish and provocative without necessarily delivering a fully cohesive narrative payoff.

For conspiracy-minded viewers, the Charles Kirkland subplot is a focal point: a fictional assassination that has generated more discussion than the film’s broader plot may warrant. Yet the debate often reveals more about the appetite of viewers for connections and patterns than it does about any actual predictive claim within the film. In practice, those who defend Snake Eyes tend to emphasize its formal audacity—the opening sequence, the camera work, the way the arena is woven into the narrative fabric—while acknowledging that the movie’s second half does not always sustain the same level of intensity. The film remains a favorite among De Palma completists and fans of late-90s thrillers who prize big, showy set pieces and a willingness to push the boundaries of mainstream suspense.

Snake Eyes is currently available to stream on Paramount+, with two subscription options: the ad-supported Essential plan at $7.99 per month and the ad-free Premium plan at $12.99 per month, the latter including Showtime and live CBS. New subscribers can begin with a seven-day free trial. The streaming window broadens accessibility for audiences seeking to revisit De Palma’s late-career experiments and to assess how his distinctive voice translates to the era of streaming and on-demand viewing.

The film’s enduring appeal, for some, lies in that single, audacious opening and in the sense that De Palma, even when his work isn’t perfectly cohesive, remains capable of turning cinema into a high-velocity, kinetic experience. For others, Snake Eyes is a reminder that even a master of technique can falter when momentum isn’t sustained. Yet the movie’s best moments endure as a testament to De Palma’s lasting impact on the language of suspense: how a single sequence can redefine a director’s reputation and invite renewed conversation about a film long after its initial release.

The conversation around Snake Eyes continues to be a staple of Culture & Entertainment discussions about late-1990s cinema. It serves as a reminder that the most memorable works in a director’s catalog are not always the most perfectly plotted, but the ones that demonstrate a daring, signature approach to storytelling. As streaming offers new generations a chance to encounter De Palma’s work, Snake Eyes remains a useful touchstone for evaluating how a filmmaker can balance spectacle, craft, and narrative ambition—even when the balance doesn’t land perfectly every time.