Wow. Brian De Palma's Dressed to Kill is about as derivative, dopey, and dreary a murder mystery, made by an A-List director, as can be. Any movie that can make Michael Caine look ridiculous (you'll know why) needs to be appreciated for its awfulness.
I think De Palma may have grown up wearing Hitchcock costumes, speaking in "presentation grammar," and breathing funny because, if the Hitchcock clichés got any thicker, you'd expect Jimmy Stewart and Anthony Perkins to put in guest appearances.
What we do get is a murder mystery that, I swear, has 1/3 of it in long, mysterious, and meaningful pieces with no dialogue, orchestral overindulgence, and, apparently, a belief that, if you smear petroleum jelly on your lens-like a Guccione centerfold-to get a dreamy feel, you wind up with a gooey lens and an audience thinking, "What the hell?"
I have never liked Angie Dickinson. I've always thought she was a brittle excuse for a sex symbol on screen. Here, she's a mother and widow who thinks she isn't attractive to men. She has a therapist, Michael Caine, who oozes the sort of calm professionalism that would make most people say "Ewww!" We get totally invested in her pathetic character.
And then she's gone.
The audience starts to chant what-the-hell.
We meet Nancy Allen, the nasty cheerleader-type in Carrie, and we get invested in her. Allen's character, a hooker, is more sympathetic than Dickinson's.
Remember that this is a murder mystery, so you would expect some exsanguinatin'. I wasn't kidding when I told you that the first third of the movie is this artsy-fartsy setup for the real movie about the prostitute who doesn't want to get jammed up with a murder charge. The mad-as-a-hatter baddie keeps popping up to scare Allen spitless, there's a scene with a group of thugs who chase her through subway trains, Dennis Franz looks like a short, fat, balding disco king, and Dickinson's son drives around on the cutest little moped.
I'm getting bogged down in the tall grass here, so I'll wrap it up.
Just to let you know, it's been an hour since I finished Dressed to Kill, and I cannot remember how the lunatic gets it in the end.
Oh, yeah. The movie ends with another long, meaningful, oh-so-elegant piece of stylized camera work that would make you long for ol' Alfred himself.
On a positive note, Nancy Allen looks really good in the shower, but the thinking part of your brain will be asking if seeing her in the altogether was worth the last 100+ minutes.
Nope.
I think De Palma may have grown up wearing Hitchcock costumes, speaking in "presentation grammar," and breathing funny because, if the Hitchcock clichés got any thicker, you'd expect Jimmy Stewart and Anthony Perkins to put in guest appearances.
What we do get is a murder mystery that, I swear, has 1/3 of it in long, mysterious, and meaningful pieces with no dialogue, orchestral overindulgence, and, apparently, a belief that, if you smear petroleum jelly on your lens-like a Guccione centerfold-to get a dreamy feel, you wind up with a gooey lens and an audience thinking, "What the hell?"
I have never liked Angie Dickinson. I've always thought she was a brittle excuse for a sex symbol on screen. Here, she's a mother and widow who thinks she isn't attractive to men. She has a therapist, Michael Caine, who oozes the sort of calm professionalism that would make most people say "Ewww!" We get totally invested in her pathetic character.
And then she's gone.
The audience starts to chant what-the-hell.
We meet Nancy Allen, the nasty cheerleader-type in Carrie, and we get invested in her. Allen's character, a hooker, is more sympathetic than Dickinson's.
Remember that this is a murder mystery, so you would expect some exsanguinatin'. I wasn't kidding when I told you that the first third of the movie is this artsy-fartsy setup for the real movie about the prostitute who doesn't want to get jammed up with a murder charge. The mad-as-a-hatter baddie keeps popping up to scare Allen spitless, there's a scene with a group of thugs who chase her through subway trains, Dennis Franz looks like a short, fat, balding disco king, and Dickinson's son drives around on the cutest little moped.
I'm getting bogged down in the tall grass here, so I'll wrap it up.
Just to let you know, it's been an hour since I finished Dressed to Kill, and I cannot remember how the lunatic gets it in the end.
Oh, yeah. The movie ends with another long, meaningful, oh-so-elegant piece of stylized camera work that would make you long for ol' Alfred himself.
On a positive note, Nancy Allen looks really good in the shower, but the thinking part of your brain will be asking if seeing her in the altogether was worth the last 100+ minutes.
Nope.