Dressed to Kill 4K 1980 Ultra HD 2160p

Story Movie

She calls herself Bobby, a tall, blond woman with an insatiable desire to kill. According to Dr. Elliott's records, Bobbie was his patient, but she switched to another doctor. The sharp razor that serves as Bobby's murder weapon was stolen from Dr. Elliott's luxurious office in the upscale New York City neighborhood where he runs a successful psychiatric practice.

Another of Bobby's victims is Kate, another of Dr. Elliott's patients who suffered from erotic fantasies so vivid that she herself could not separate them from reality. Prostitute Liz accidentally witnesses the crime, immediately becoming both a target of harassment for the killer and a suspect for the police.

Review 4K Movie

The tone is mocking, crossed with soap opera set-top music, with Angie Dickinson's face promising unearthly pleasures, a mature woman (an adult son to prove it), with a glint of insatiability in her eyes, meets me at the very threshold, making me do just one thing: grin warmly instead of greeting and move on.

A soft path is laid out by De Palma. "Softly," I want to quip, but I won't. My tongue is bitten. All in the light of pastel icing, vanilla, whipped cream. Turns out Angie has a doctor. Having mastered the basics of psychoanalysis, Dr. Elliott listens with deep attention to Angie's tales of sexual frustration, asks a few things, gives invaluable advice, but refuses affection. Another knot, a squiggle that you stumble hastily over, well, afterwards you smile at your own discoordination, or maybe dreaminess, not noticing the wolf in sheep's clothing? That's where the showdown about the usefulness of psychoanalysts ends, and the BLOOD (alarms) of my favorite color begins.

"Dressed to Kill" doesn't have a game of "And guess who we have here is a maniac freak?" De Palma builds around his characters a very clear chain of coincidences, hints, such as to lose sight of any at least a little bit seasoned cinephile, and in general a person attentive. And you can't say that the movie is badly shot and the script is useless, because, as I said, the director didn't mean to - to lead the audience by the nose with this scheme - oh, I didn't think it was him who was the murderer... Also, my eyes don't suddenly round up like Keith Gordon's during, you know, the so-called apotheosis.

I mean, he's doing something else, this Brian... laughs? Oh yes, and a lot. Avoiding the standard arguments about fighting, suppressing sexuality, which is what it's usually reduced to, as if it's the root of all evil, all boring and old and flat, De Palma performs an amusing "Caesar's to Caesar" trick... He also doesn't listen to dreams, but shows them, silently and without explanation. Dickinson's heroine walks through the labyrinths of the museum, looking for the man she likes, then he follows her, and then her again... This "kind of dream" is essentially a harbinger of a real nightmare, but a little later, closer to the end, establishes an invisible connection with it, linking the entire film with a sense of light oblivion, a half-conscious state of stupor. And for that, Brian De Palma gets a huge thank you.

And I would like to praise Nancy Allen, who delighted me for the first time in the role of Liz, an elderly prostitute who has seen many things in her life. The last ten minutes - they are simply gorgeous. Thanks again.