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Rating: I have noticed that on DeBaser there's little talk about Brian de Palma, an Italian-American director who, along with Scorsese and Coppola (Cimino deserves a separate discussion), constitutes the sacred trinity of the best American cinema of the seventies.
Among the mentioned directors, de Palma is, indeed, the most gifted on a purely technical level—thanks to an absolute mastery of photography, editing, and the use of the camera—and the weakest on a dramatic level, meaning that many of his films suffer from writing and narrative difficulties that often make them akin to "exercises in style" rather than genuine narratives, as is the case with the films of the colleagues mentioned above.
De Palma's career itself appears erratic and characterized by the ambivalence between the director's authorial vocation ("Scarface", "Dressed to Kill", "Casualties of War") and his dependence on the major studios, which have often called him to direct, with undeniable formal mastery, hugely successful blockbusters written and scripted by others (from "Carrie" to "Mission Impossible," passing through "The Untouchables"). It should also be noted that it is precisely thanks to the box office takings of mainstream films that de Palma can finance his independent projects, often destined to be overlooked by the theater-going public.
"Dressed to Kill" ('80) represents, in my opinion, one of the most interesting films by the director from Newark, as well as a successful bridge between his authorial vocation, accustomed to exploring the realms of noir to also speak of other themes, following in the footsteps of Hitchcock, Antonioni, and the early Kubrick, and the commercial flair of his cinema, resulting in a balanced and avant-garde work in terms of form, while being fully enjoyable for viewers who do not wish to create excessive superstructures around cinema.
The plot is, in itself, rather thin, telling the story of a high-class young prostitute (Nancy Allen), an involuntary witness to the murder of a woman (Angie "Legs" Dickinson), who investigates alongside the victim's son (Keith Gordon) in search of the killer, accidentally seen through the mirror of an elevator. The murderer, soon identified as the transsexual Bobby, attended the office of the psychoanalyst Elliot (Michael Caine) alongside the victim, who helps the young ones in their investigation. In turn, the murderer begins to hunt his pursuers, leading to the unsettling dual ending, of which I will obviously not reveal the details. The story's development appears balanced, presenting us overall an engaging detective story that may appear predictable to genre enthusiasts but offers some surprises and jolts, as well as being extremely captivating both in the investigations by the improvised detectives and in the long scenes where the young prostitute is pursued by the murderer in the New York wasteland.
The main characters are well outlined, from the seductive Nancy Allen (at the time the director's wife, somewhat like the overseas Daria Nicolodi, if I may say so), who represents the intuitive, enthusiastic, and action-driven investigator, to the complex Keith Gordon (the director’s alter ego as a young man), the static but brilliant investigator—thanks also to the use of technology and science—passing through the excellent Michael Caine, who delineates with great finesse the psychiatrist attracted to the femininity of the young woman and the intelligence of the young man, as well as the complex personality of his patients, incidentally both victim and murderer at the center of the investigation.
Without revealing too much of the plot and its developments, that of sexual desire and the reactions it triggers in individuals: thus, the first victim is a nymphomaniac who ends up making love with a stranger (who will turn out to be suffering from syphilis—in a pre-AIDS era), the prostitute lives and earns on the sexual desires of others, aware that every man sees her exclusively as a sexual object; the victim's son—already morbidly tied to his mother by what would seem to be an Oedipal bond—sees in the prostitute a different object of desire that pushes him to emancipate from the same maternal figure, so that if the original investigative intent was aimed at avenging his mother by revealing the identity of the killer Bobby, during the film, the true purpose of his action is to save—and redeem—the young prostitute. Dr. Elliot himself, though cold and detached, harbors sexual desires towards the young protagonist, not hiding having been attracted to the boy’s mother, later killed by Bobby. In turn, in a sharp play of mirrors (note how mirrors are central in the very film representation, in the first murder and the final scene), the same Bobby—man—captured by desire for the first victim, dresses as a woman to kill, not only the person but also his own drive.
The film is a must, especially from a technical and representational standpoint, exploring various photography, filming, and narrative techniques. Without weighing down the review, I invite the reader to pay attention to at least three memorable scenes. The first is the long tracking shot describing the first victim’s visit to the art exhibit, where the camera—accompanied by a fitting soundtrack—follows the mutual romantic pursuit between the mature lady (later Bobby’s victim) and her lover through labyrinthine corridors and rooms: the sentimental melodrama is intricately woven with the mysterious atmosphere of the film, all the more so because, if you pay close attention to the people present on the museum's external steps, on the second or third viewing of the film, you will notice the presence of the transsexual killer, who was evidently stalking his designated victim from the beginning.
A second interesting scene is set in the New York subway while the young prostitute is pursued by Bobby. The sequence's charm lies in the fact that the unfortunate protagonist is subjected to various sources of danger, with no apparent way out: on one side the killer who intends to eliminate an inconvenient witness, on the other a gang of thugs evidently wanting to exploit her charms. The third splendid scene is the finale, in which, without giving away too much, one of the protagonists is assaulted by Bobby within his own home. The sequence instills anxiety and tension, culminating when you realize how even a pair of shoes can offer bitter surprises if placed in the right spot.
In summary, an excellent film, albeit not an absolute masterpiece.
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