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Dressed to Kill understandably made a bit of a ruckus when first released in 1980: you had "Police Girl" in a role that was mega-erotic, as Angie Dicknson played a sexually frustrated housewife looking for good times in all the wrong museums (and there into apartment elevators), plus Nancy Allen as a call-girl, Michael Caine as Norman Bates's sophisticated New York cousin, and enough lurid imagery to last two movies of the period. Today it's slightly less incriminating by standards and such, though the unrated version has some of the most "hot" content of any of De Palma's films, at least in his quasi-auteur period of the 70s and early 80s, where he seemed to repeat themes over and over, ideas taken right off the film-reels of Hitchcock classics and given a tawdry uplift. It's a simple tale that one partly already saw in Sisters, and then again to an extent in Body Double, and also in Blow Out. Cutie Allen plays call-girl Liz Blake, who has to clear her name of suspicion of killing Kate (Dickinson, in full blown 'MILF' mode), after being found with a razor, the murder weapon from Dr. Elliott's office (Michael Caine, stone-cold performance most of the way).
From the start, which De Palma seems to do as a way of setting up a dangerous sexual fantasy scene as a way of topping the opening scene of Carrie (which, perhaps, he does just in editing terms), we get a series of technical knock-out turns through the point of view of style itself: the tracking shots in the museum, meant to stir up more of a fascination with the process itself, of following and wanting to be followed, than any kind of tension; the chase through the subway (a precursor to Carlito's Way) is done with a precise level of suspense, meanwhile, with a slightly exploitation bit thrown in with the black gang; the character of Peter, Kate's son (Keith Gordon), who plays what is essentially a younger version of the real life De Palma as a kid (science geek, obsessed with Hitchcock and voyeurism). And it's all entertaining and entrancing as hell as something that comes close to a real synthesis of what makes De Palma's thrillers so unique while being so self-consciously untainted by a fearless attitude of film-making.
On the other hand, that same self-consciousness ended up coming back to bite the director in the butt a few times in recent years, and somehow in Dressed to Kill it starts to become very erratic and disappointing as the story has to wrap itself up. As the Psycho themes come together even more apparently (man who wants a sex-change, doesn't even think he's killing as it is *she* who is doing it), there is an expository scene in the police station that makes the aforementioned Hitch film look like an astonishing psychological revelation. And the final scenes at Peter's house, also calling painfully into recollection a much more accomplished sequence in Carrie, are meant for a manipulation that even for De Palma is asking for it; the final shot especially, albeit a master's class in how to copy yourself. Yet there is a very deranged and, within itself, perfect scene at the mental hospital amid this confused denouement, where the doctor does some work on a nurse, to which all the other inmates act like animals in a zoo, and an over-head shot going up and up over the scene is one of the best shots of sexual/general perversion ever captured on film.
A shame then that the film ends on such a strange and unsettling manner, where up until then it is a remarkable piece of pulp cinema, where class is all around in the technical aspects (soft lighting, intricate camera movements seemingly so simple) amid subject matter that should be found in the mix of paperbacks for 25 cents. It's no masterpiece, but I'd certainly take it over most of the director's recent thrillers any day.


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