I Paje 8-A-Friday, September'5, 1980-The Michigan Daily a -u nu n Classic quotes and cheap thrills (Continued from Page 7) than expected. He can magnify a moment so that it's memorably gargantuan and agonizing. There's nothing here to compare with the! deliciously cruel extension of the split- seconds before Carrie White's spec- tacular humiliation, and the script's light-headedness gives even the strongest bits an air of silliness-they're terrifying for a moment, then they evaporate. Still, the technique works when Liz, frozen with horror, reaches to Kate's blood-soaked outstretched hand as the elevator door slowly closes and the murderer's razor is held just outside of her sight, ready to strike. Of all the whiz kids of new. Hollywood, de Palma is the purest spawn of the movies; he can do devilishly imaginative and funny things with a trickily contrived scene like that -this movie is nothing more than a jit- tery excuse for dozens of them-but anything that demands something other than a visual sense is beyond him, or at least fails to spark his interest. A simple dialogue sequence like the one in which Elliot is interrogated by the police detective (who is hopelessly played) falls embarrassingly flat. And the characters are cardboard cut-outs. Angie Dickinson's Kate is the sort of bravura bad acting that wins awar- ds-a fruity, overripe hausfrau, with that Ann-Margaret brand of Dathos. -M She's a flagrantly silly character, but at least she is a character. The movie suf- fers from the loss of her; de Palma hasn't solved the problem that Hitch- cock had when Janet Leigh's Marion Crane was killed off in Psycho-the schock was effective, but we were left with only the second-string protagonists. It's possible that he even went out of his way to preserve this flaw, as a twisted hommage. MICHAEL CAINE plays things seriously (which must have been dif- ficult under the circumstances), but Elliot is a Ralph Bellamy role until near the end, running around dully in an at- tempt to solve the crime, coping with all the dialogue scenes that de Palma couldn't get rid of. A lot of interesting new actresses came out of Carrie-grave Amy Irving, cheerfully tacky P.J. Soles, the extraordinary Sissy Spacek-but though Nancy Allen is recognizable, and de Palma gets her into some amusing scrapes (with dumb-tart lines like "Gee, I'm gonna miss having you on my tail."), her lack of distinctiveness hurts the rovie when she takes over as its heroine. She's the one you probably didn't remember from Carrie, though some of her lines here seem designed to revive memories (the ring bells of recognition with monotonous regularity), and de Palma's contempt for her character hardly helps-he keeps pointing out her lack of class and smarts, effectively sabotaging any audience concern for her. Paired with the boy-wonder scien- tist, she's Nancy Drew as a cheap broad; a juvenile lead, with wisecracks. Dressed- to Kill is an aggressive at- tempt to swing into Hitchcock's aban- doned throne, and as de Palma's past, works of sheer derivation (Obession, The Fury) have been, it's something of a waste-certainly Carrie is as edgy frightening, beautiful and blackly' humorous as the best of Hitchcock, and. for de Palma to continue playing the Master's pretender is practically a step backward. One can't account for some of the dumb errors here, like the un- believably garish, soupy score (with its murmuring female voices, it sounds like a Ray Coniff album) by Pino Donaggio, the ludicrously obvious split- screen effects, or the excesses of a camera that calls profound attention to some usually insignificant object every ten seconds-every damned thing is turned into a MacGuffin. And it cer- tainly wasn't worth the effort to reprise Hitchcock's Psycho suspense-killing finale, in which the characters sit around the police station nodding in agreement while a psychiatrist tediously explains everything that we've just seen. But de Palma isn't finished yet-and his gleeful audaciousness, his need to push things so far that you have to laugh, pushes Dressed to Kill (such a wonderful title for a transvestite-killer movie) much further, and saves it all along. This film is high camp, and feN directors aside from de Palma could- make international camp that works outrageous cresendoes-Liz removing her heavy coat to reveal a Frederick's of Hollywood black-undies outfit in Elliot's office; a modern mental stitute that out Grand-Guignols any Lon Chaney freak show; Kate lovingly opening her afternoon lover's des drawer to discover a "You have E venereal disease!" notification frorr the health office; a wild thunderstorrr injected into a scene for no apparen purpose-work up so much giddy stea-0 that hysteria becomes an end in itself. Dressed to Kill is awful, and audien ces who go expecting a straight thriller walk out feeling cheated by its foolery When de Palma stops stealing his plot and trying to see how much idiocy h can get away with, he may producer masterpiece-but in the meantime, a least no one will be bored by ravin' camp festivals like this one. 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