The rivalry between the manipulative boss of an advertising agency and her talented protégée escalates from stealing credit to public humiliation to murder.
But for all his panache, Ford lacks the focus and control of someone like Brian De Palma, whose work, including his recent Passion , routinely straddles such disparate divides.
And here at last—a little later than would be ideal—is a '70s De Palma murder, and then the wee brunette with the dry-crackle voice sinks into a drugged-out, wrongly accused plot recalling that Steven Soderbergh thing you saw on TCM last week, Side Effects, the one that ground that other girl with the dragon tattoo through something like the same pharmaceutical Hitchcockisms.