Double Exposure

First time I saw this film many years ago, I thought it was a pretty fair slasher film, but on second recent viewing, it's waned a bit - while Callan is okay as the central character, a men's magazine photographer suffering from bizarre and murderous apparent dreams, Jim Stacy as his knock-about brother, maimed in an auto-accident, is perhaps the film's highlight. The switch in dominance between Callan and Stacy's characters is interesting to see evolve, but it's a transition that's made difficult to follow due to the film's erratic narrative. Joanna Pettet gets undressed and even has a "When Harry Met Sally" moment with Callan in the back of his camper-van, as the only woman with whom Callan's emotionally fragile character can consummate.

The violence is pretty extreme at times, with sado-masochistic homicide the flavour of the early eighties slasher film getting 'double exposure' here, full-frontal female nudity, mud-wrestling, even Cleavon Little in a minor supporting role as a cranky police chief. It's eclectic. The cast has surprising depth with producer Callan managing to assemble an enviable cast that includes big Bob Tessier as a bar manager, Pamela Hensley as a ball-breaking detective, Seymour Cassel as Callan's shrink, Misty Rowe as Stacy's squeeze, Sally Kirkland as a voluptuous hooker and blink-and-you'll-miss Terry Moore in a flashback dream sequence.

Lairy wardrobe, colourful dialogue, pulsating synthesisers and tricky cinematographic effects momentarily distract you, but the narrative is so inconsistent and the editing (or perhaps scene sequence and continuity) so incoherent at times, that it never maintains any momentum. Highly stylised, the bold concepts and loud motifs (not to mention the substantial cast) should have made for a better movie all things considered, and yet, it's still no Brian DePalma psycho-thriller.

According the cinematographer R. Michael Stringer called out of the bed to bring help of the director William Byron Hillman that had already shot half movie in anamorphic ratio in bad manner, so Stringer advised him to reshot it entirely, well aside the bad start a lousy screenplay did not help to much the lame offering, worst the leading character Michael Callan overacted as wacko mid-age man often wake up fully wet with sweat after terrible nightmares, also as his closest brother the poker-face James Stacey in bad acting as well.

So what reliefs the audience's suffering, the gorgeous girls casting, Joanna Petet aside a slight older can pass for good enough all remaining girls are really sexy as Pamela Hensey as Sgt. Fountain, the heavenly Bambi portraited by the eye-candy Misty Howe and low and behold the newest Sally Kirland passing by as Boulevard street's easy girl among others beauties, without forget the classy Seymour Cassell the black star Cleavon Little and the iconic tough guy and old acquaintance Robert Tessier.

Thanks for reading.

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First watch: 2025 / How many: 1 / Source: DVD / Rating: 5.

Michael Callan plays a smarmy photographer who seems, nonetheless, to be regarded as a perfect "catch" by any woman that runs across him; could this have anything to do with the fact that he also co-produced the film? He's a "hero" whom it's very difficult to empathize with, so the movie is in trouble right from the start. However, it's troubles don't end there. It has the production values of a TV-movie (check out that head made of clay or something, near the end), and the ending cheats in a way that I can't reveal, in case anyone wants to see the movie (highly unlikely). Let's just say that the killer knows more than we were let to know he knows. (*1/2)

A good old early eighties slasher film with a distinct giallo flavour to it, Double Exposure does what it sets out to do, but adds a little character to the proceedings too. Adrian Wilde is a photographer who suffers from bad dreams, especially those where he's killing the models who work with him. His brother, a stunt man whose career cost him an arm and a leg (literally), offers support but seems to be increasingly bitter and angry at the world. Wilde meets a girl called Misty, but his dreams and failing grip on reality threaten the relationship, and when the models start turning up dead in real life, Wilde reckons he's got a big problem on his hands.

The giallo side of things rears it's head as it become apparent that the true life killer is a photographer, but in the giallo style, just about every male character wields a camera at some point, from Wilde and his brother, the local barman, the psychiatrist and a gay colleague of Wilde's. Some of the killings seemingly take place in Wilde's dreams, and although the gore level is low the nasty level is quite high, especially when one model has her head forced into a bin bag that contains a snake.

So, is Wilde a nutter or is there some other utter nutter muttering in the background (with a camera shutter covered in butter)? I'll leave that up to you to find out, but I enjoyed this film, although I'm kind of getting fed up watching middle aged men getting it on with the chicks, like.

I had to scan the credits of this movie for surnames beginning and/or ending in vowels because I'd swear it was an Italian giallo. All the signs are there: gratuitous violence and nudity, out-of-control cinematography, a completely ridiculous plot. Michael Callan is a photographer who has incredibly cinematic dreams where he murders his beautiful, half-naked models. When his beautiful, half-naked models start being murdered in real life, both the police and his psychiatrist (Seymour Cassel) begin to suspect that he is the killer. But is it him or is it his creepy brother who is missing both an arm and leg (but still gets to date former "Hee Haw" honey Misty Rowe and mud wrestle Playmate-to-be Kathy Shower)? If you've seen even one of these kind of movies, you already know the answer. Still if you love Italian giallos and 70's and 80's low-budget American exploitation flicks (a select group of people, I know) you'll be in drunken, late-night TV-watching heaven with this one.