Dressed to Kill

It's been said every rock band and writer starts off emulating their heroes before finding their own voice. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like Brian de Palma had gotten to that point by the time this came flick came around. Clearly, he was going for a Hitchcockian thriller along the lines of Psycho, which is a stupid thing to emulate. That's like walking into the batter's box down 0-2. You don't try to emulate not only one of Hitchcock's best works, but one of CINEMA'S best works. What made Hitchcock's best films work so well was that, though they had elements that were taboo at the time, he didn't make them overt. Rear Window was all about voyeurism. Psycho had both voyeurism and cross-dressing. Vertigo was necrophilia-by-proxy. But he didn't come out and SAY it. It wasn't shoved in your face. de Palma has no such grace or elegance. Dressed To Kill is lurid and as subtle as a sledgehammer. The first 30 minutes, Angie Dickinson is naked or having sex in every other scene. There's no trace of how Marion Crane's sexual appetites (or, for that matter, Norman Bates') were hinted at but kept at a distance; nope, here, you see her masturbating in the shower, then getting banged by her husband, then getting oral in a taxi with a stranger. Again, that's the first THIRTY MINUTES. This doesn't feel like Hitchcock, and it doesn't feel like a modernization of it. It just feels smutty, like he took the template and ran it through a Playboy centerfold. And Angie Dickinson's character seriously comes up short compared to Marion Crane. We know Marion isn't a great person; she embezzles from her boss. But Hitchcock still manages to give Marion some sympathy, some vulnerability, and some relatability. Angie Dickinson's character has none of that. She's frustrated in her marriage, he doesn't satisfy her in bed, she makes a pass at her therapist, and she sleeps with a perfect stranger. Why is her marriage unsatisfactory? Why is she falling out of love with her husband? No answers. There are women who feel this way in the real world, but in a movie, you need to give the viewer some why, and this movie is too interested in the next shot of tits to spend any time making her character matter beyond being the victim that sets up the plot. As for the plot itself ... eh, it happens. The murderer pops up here and there to taunt the audience and give some jump scares, but at no point does it offer up any red herrings along the way. The reveal at the end just sorta happens ... and then you notice there's still like 10 minutes left, and it gives you some bullshit dream jump scare to end on. It's funny, because in the lead-up, not only did Brian de Palma say this was an homage to Hitchcock, he also derided slasher movies for ruining horror. Funny, that, Brian, since your movie borrows HEAVILY from giallo (bright red blood, mystery killer) and slashers (the young woman in peril, nudity, dream sequence chair jumper ending). There so many other quibbles with this movie ... sequences that go on too long, like the museum scene, or looking for the appointment book. The score getting very dramatic at moments that don't need it. The son being an inventor so he can provide gadgets that propel the plot along. Dennis Franz' cliched NOO YAWK CAWP routine. Don't even get me started on the problematic motivation of the killer. It's really not worth harping on all the other little flaws. The fact of the matter is, de Palma borrowed from a genre he despised, and bungled a director's style he emulated, and the result is this turkey.