My mother hooked me on an inappropriately precocious diet of horror and suspense – then a solo viewing of Brian de Palma’s dream-like slasher raised the bar
In the early 90s, during my so-called tween years, Brian de Palma’s 1980 movie Dressed to Kill already represented a time capsule from a different era of suspense film-making. By the time it became a regular on US television’s late-night marquee, the film – along with the Italian giallo, a genre from which De Palma lifted much of his operatic style and oneiric visuals – had been succeeded by a decade of low-budget slashers and erotic thrillers. A profusion of full-frontal nudity and graphic violence, once envisioned and choreographed for 35mm widescreen, was increasingly beamed into the small home cinema thanks to the advent of cable television and direct-to-video rentals. De Palma, meanwhile, was deep into a 10-year divertissement of
Hollywood action and prestige pictures.
Despite Dressed to Kill’s highly inappropriate content for a suburban child of 12, I was instantly transfixed by a heavily edited version of the film that screened regularly on late-night TV. Like my mother, and my grandmother before her, I had already exhibited a precocious fascination with the horror and suspense genres, encouraged, no doubt, by their programming choices. I would often see these B-films in the movie theatre with my mother as a sort of cinematic bonding ritual. But Dressed to Kill was the first such film I experienced by my lonesome, like a keyhole through which I glimpsed the tenebrous world of adulthood.