The film starts and we are looking over the shoulder of a man watching a screen. On that screen, in grainy black and white, are two men. A women lies dead on the bed. Some sordid business has happened in that room and Brian De Palma is once again reworking the memory of using surveillance to catch his father having an affair. This is Mission: Impossible, the family movie. Dressed to Kill, made 16 years earlier and not something to watch with your kids, also sees this obsession being worked through. Both are fabulous fun.
What I like about De Palma is that he clearly gives very few shits. His films are his and are pulpy, kinetic, comic book affairs with a wild streak of sleaze, violence and plenty of peeping. They are, in their own discordant, unsocial, in-spite of themselves way, a real pleasure because they are irrepressibly and undoubtedly ‘movies’.