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De Palma's technique had hit its high maturity by the time of this film, which is a wonderful showcase of his classic techniques, though unfortunately, as with many of the films written by De Palma himself, the story serves the meta more than the interests of putting forth an emotionally compelling tale.
The story opens with a CRAZY scene in which Angie Dickinson masturbates in a shower while she looks at her husband. She is then grabbed and raped while he husband stands obliviously near-and the whole thing is revealed to be Angie's fantasy as he husband is pumping mindlessly away at her in bed. She has a short scene with her son, a dead ringer for Harry Potter, which concludes with a joke that "she'll tell grandma that he is playing with his peter." She then goes to her therapy session, where she complains about her dead marriage, before attempting to seduce her therapist, Michael Caine. He refuses, and she is hurt and feeling unattractive and unfulfilled.
Then begins a bravura 22-minute nearly wordless sequence that is perhaps the highlight of the film. Among the many things De Palma gleaned from Hitchcock is the understanding of film as a purely visual medium of telling stories and in typical De Palma fashion, he turns this into a way to show off his formidable skill. The problem, for me, is that in this instance one begins to feel that scenes are being needlessly protracted simply to further show off the director's skill.
The sequence begins with Angie at an art museum. She watches strangers, all involved in sexual or family activities, then begins to get turned on to a man sitting next to her. De Palma very skillfully tells an extremely complicated narrative without a single word about Angie's attraction, embarrassment, retreating, and finally finding and submitting to the stranger in the back of a taxi cab, all set to a wonderfully lush score by Pino Donaggio, who also scored Carrie.
In the second part of the sequence Angie has slept with the guy, and gets up to return to her husband. Again De Palma crams a ton of narrative in without a word of dialogue uttered, as Angie realizes that she doesn't have her panties, that her husband is already home and no doubt wondering where she is, that she has probably contracted a venereal disease, and that she has lost her engagement ring somewhere in the shuffle. It's all very admirable, but one begins to feel a little strung along as we are forced to do things like take a long elevator ride down from the seventh floor, then up again, almost in real time.
...Spoilers from here on out! When Angie reaches the seventh floor again, she is killed by a big woman with blond hair. The woman hacks away at her until she reaches the ground floor, when the door opens and Nancy Allen sees her there. There is a wonderful slow-motion sequence as Nancy reaches into the elevator, Angie reaches up toward her, and the killer's blade is held poised to slash Nancy's hands. Then follow some electrifying shots as Nancy looks up and sees the killer in the elevators convex mirror. It's all good, and by the time we have some dialogue again, you think; "Woah, that was just 22 straight minutes of purely visual narrative!" Or maybe you don't, but I do.
A younger Dennis Franz has a great part as a sleazy and tough New York detective who would rather that everyone else do his work for him. He Interviews Michael Caine, making the outrageous implication (though it passes as commonplace) that Angie WANTED to be killed. Angie's son is there as well, and he hooks up with Nancy, and they set about to spy on Caine's therapist and find out who the killer is.
Once again there is a strong tie to a Hitchcock film, in this case Psycho (just as Obsession is a re-working of Vertigo). You have a woman who we are supposed to understand is secretly a slut, who gets killed in the first 30 minutes in an enclosed space, in this case an elevator rather than a shower. Then the relatives of the deceased conduct an investigation, which reveals that the killer is a man who dresses as a woman to kill. De Palma even throws in a doctor at the end who explains the psychology of the whole thing.
It is very interesting, but at the same time a viewer can begin to feel a bit jerked around, and that is my primary reservation about this film. It is definitely essential viewing and showcases some of De Palma's greatest setpieces, but that feeling that the story is running a solid third behind the need for De Palma to show off and his somewhat unseemly sexual fantasies makes it hard to look back on this one with whole-hearted affection.
--- Check out other reviews on my website of bad and cheesy movies, Cinema de Merde, cinemademerde.com


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