After witnessing the brutal murder of housewife Kate Miller by a mysterious woman. Prostitute, Liz Blake finds herself in a precarious predicament. Suspected by the police as being the murderer, she also finds herself in the crosshairs of the real killer who as she is the only witness to the crime. The only ally she has is Kate's son, Peter who believes that she is innocent. Teaming up to bring the real perpetrator to justice, they sooner learn that there is more to the true identity of the killer than meets the eye.
Following on from the critical and commercial success that he had with his adaptation of Stephen King's Carrie. Brian De Palma would follow it up with this erotic thriller. An undoubted homage to the movies of Alfred Hitchcock, who the director has made no bones about being one of his creative influences. Wearing his creative influences from the master of suspense on his sleeve. It undoubtedly takes its cues from Hitchcock's Psycho, but as far as having the same level of technical skill and level of tension that his movies had, Dressed to Kill is seriously lacking in any of these attributes. As a matter of fact, the movie was an unmitigated disaster.
The problems with it are manyfold not least of least Pino Dinaggio's overbearing musical score which feels very much out of place and feels as if it should have belonged in a chocolate advert. The movie's plot early on follows Angie Dickinson's sexually frustrated housewife, who for reasons that defy explanation has a sexual tryst with a complete stranger. But not before the director thinks it prudent to throw in a shower sequence (which didn't feature Dickinson but a body double) in a shallow bit of superficial eroticism. De Palma's direction is terribly heavy-handed, especially in a scene in a museum, and there's a sense that he's purely painting by numbers. The elevator sequence, which is undoubtedly inspired by the infamous shower scene from Psycho lacks any of the searing intensity that Hitchcock brought to it, and features an awful reaction shot with Nancy Allen staring in horror at a bloodied Angie Dickinson who has fallen prey to the movie's psychotic killer.
As with Psycho, De Palma introduces us to the movie's heroine, only to see her being despatched, not even halfway into this debacle which by this point it seems hard to care. Little is explored, and we're given anything resembling any real insight given to her home life which makes it difficult to become emotionally invested in her. Nor any of the subsequent characters, that includes her son played by Keith Gordon who teams up with Nancy Allen's hapless prostitute who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The characterization is paper-thin, to say the least, with Dennis Franz most notably chewing the scenery as the requisite hardboiled tough-talking cop.
Michael Caine, as both Dickinson pretty much phones in his performance, and feels as if he's thoroughly disinterested, which is perhaps is more than can be said for Allen who if you were to stand her next to a block of wood, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. By the time we get to the movie's final reveal as to who the killer is, in what is supposed to be a shocking twist, the apathy I felt toward the conclusion had taken over. It amazes me to think that this appalling mess was directed by the same man, who would later go on to give audiences the mesmerising, brooding, and stylish Scarface three years later. Perhaps De Palma was having an off day, I don't. But Dressed to Kill should stand as a master class in film school, as to how not to direct a taut, psychological thriller. It certainly doesn't deserve to be come anywhere near close to be mentioned in the same sentence as any of the work of Hitchcock, which feels like an insult to the legendary filmmaker himself.
Following on from the critical and commercial success that he had with his adaptation of Stephen King's Carrie. Brian De Palma would follow it up with this erotic thriller. An undoubted homage to the movies of Alfred Hitchcock, who the director has made no bones about being one of his creative influences. Wearing his creative influences from the master of suspense on his sleeve. It undoubtedly takes its cues from Hitchcock's Psycho, but as far as having the same level of technical skill and level of tension that his movies had, Dressed to Kill is seriously lacking in any of these attributes. As a matter of fact, the movie was an unmitigated disaster.
The problems with it are manyfold not least of least Pino Dinaggio's overbearing musical score which feels very much out of place and feels as if it should have belonged in a chocolate advert. The movie's plot early on follows Angie Dickinson's sexually frustrated housewife, who for reasons that defy explanation has a sexual tryst with a complete stranger. But not before the director thinks it prudent to throw in a shower sequence (which didn't feature Dickinson but a body double) in a shallow bit of superficial eroticism. De Palma's direction is terribly heavy-handed, especially in a scene in a museum, and there's a sense that he's purely painting by numbers. The elevator sequence, which is undoubtedly inspired by the infamous shower scene from Psycho lacks any of the searing intensity that Hitchcock brought to it, and features an awful reaction shot with Nancy Allen staring in horror at a bloodied Angie Dickinson who has fallen prey to the movie's psychotic killer.
As with Psycho, De Palma introduces us to the movie's heroine, only to see her being despatched, not even halfway into this debacle which by this point it seems hard to care. Little is explored, and we're given anything resembling any real insight given to her home life which makes it difficult to become emotionally invested in her. Nor any of the subsequent characters, that includes her son played by Keith Gordon who teams up with Nancy Allen's hapless prostitute who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The characterization is paper-thin, to say the least, with Dennis Franz most notably chewing the scenery as the requisite hardboiled tough-talking cop.
Michael Caine, as both Dickinson pretty much phones in his performance, and feels as if he's thoroughly disinterested, which is perhaps is more than can be said for Allen who if you were to stand her next to a block of wood, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. By the time we get to the movie's final reveal as to who the killer is, in what is supposed to be a shocking twist, the apathy I felt toward the conclusion had taken over. It amazes me to think that this appalling mess was directed by the same man, who would later go on to give audiences the mesmerising, brooding, and stylish Scarface three years later. Perhaps De Palma was having an off day, I don't. But Dressed to Kill should stand as a master class in film school, as to how not to direct a taut, psychological thriller. It certainly doesn't deserve to be come anywhere near close to be mentioned in the same sentence as any of the work of Hitchcock, which feels like an insult to the legendary filmmaker himself.
