The Body Artist
Body Double (1984)
directed by Brian De Palma
rating: 4 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix
Catching movies on cable at friends’ houses in the late 80s and early 90s always had a Peeping Tom quality to it. The line between that one guy in the group who spent an inordinate amount of time trying to buy porn at the convenience store in some other neighborhood and the soft-core “erotic thrillers” that channels like USA were peddling was blurry. There was something a little unhealthy to both of them, I guess – something psychological and even perverse prying its way into old-fashioned sex-ed.
Maybe because both the TV and the side trips occurred late at night, usually in conjunction with setting off fireworks in the middle of the street, the idea of buying a ticket at a ticket counter to watch a movie like Body Heat at the theater would never have crossed our minds. Admittedly, I was a year old when Body Heat was released, but it’s a good example of the genre. Sneaking into Showgirls was one thing because nudity was one thing, but for a brief period of time, “adult situations” were actually marketed to – and frequently starred - people our parents’ age and passed off as mainstream entertainment for grown-ups.
Body Double is a masterpiece, both completely self-aware and down-the-line suspenseful. If Brian De Palma had directed no other movie, Quentin Tarantino could still sing his praises for understanding Hitchcock, loving Hitchcock, and making films as records of specific times and places that preserve and elevate instead of age and date past eras. Why is that so rare? Why does De Palma always seem to enjoy himself so much?
The better question is, why not? The 80s were sleazy, and what’s more fun than Body Double? Directing Body Double, maybe. And what are those narrow winding streets and high hills in Los Angeles so full of people and secrets for if not a good murder scene from a helpless distance?
directed by Brian De Palma
rating: 4 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix
Catching movies on cable at friends’ houses in the late 80s and early 90s always had a Peeping Tom quality to it. The line between that one guy in the group who spent an inordinate amount of time trying to buy porn at the convenience store in some other neighborhood and the soft-core “erotic thrillers” that channels like USA were peddling was blurry. There was something a little unhealthy to both of them, I guess – something psychological and even perverse prying its way into old-fashioned sex-ed.
Maybe because both the TV and the side trips occurred late at night, usually in conjunction with setting off fireworks in the middle of the street, the idea of buying a ticket at a ticket counter to watch a movie like Body Heat at the theater would never have crossed our minds. Admittedly, I was a year old when Body Heat was released, but it’s a good example of the genre. Sneaking into Showgirls was one thing because nudity was one thing, but for a brief period of time, “adult situations” were actually marketed to – and frequently starred - people our parents’ age and passed off as mainstream entertainment for grown-ups.
Body Double is a masterpiece, both completely self-aware and down-the-line suspenseful. If Brian De Palma had directed no other movie, Quentin Tarantino could still sing his praises for understanding Hitchcock, loving Hitchcock, and making films as records of specific times and places that preserve and elevate instead of age and date past eras. Why is that so rare? Why does De Palma always seem to enjoy himself so much?
The better question is, why not? The 80s were sleazy, and what’s more fun than Body Double? Directing Body Double, maybe. And what are those narrow winding streets and high hills in Los Angeles so full of people and secrets for if not a good murder scene from a helpless distance?
posted by NPK at 5:19 PM
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