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The overture of blood and semen is just what this recomposition of The Fourth Man calls for, the victim is a retired rock 'n' roller who "got off before he got off." The main suspect writes lurid novels under the nom de plume Woolf, a rapacious heiress flashing Beckett's "classical bitch's eye," Sharon Stone in a sensational emanation of teasing hauteur. A new addiction for the homicide detective (Michael Douglas), who wants to wipe the smirk off her face and ends up tied to her bedpost with a silk scarf. "The fuck of the century" is his verdict, the psychological analysis finds "a devious, diabolical mind," the partner (George Dzundza) volunteers a diagnosis of his own: "She's got that magna cum laude pussy on her that done fried up your brain!" Bad girls rule Paul Verhoeven's pornocracy of ice-picks and iced pricks, feared and exalted in a style of sublime gaudiness. Relishing her carnal force, the vamp melts a roomful of sweaty cops with a bit of genital peekaboo, Douglas afterward can't wait to tear the undies off his shrink (Jeanne Tripplehorn). "Funny how the subconscious works." "Hilarious." San Francisco because it's Vertigo, the doubling of blondes extends to Stone's leather-clad girlfriend (Leilani Sarelle) and the vintage family-slaying siren (Dorothy Malone), Marnie is a mainstay. (Jerry Goldsmith's sinuous aping of Bernard Herrmann adds to the effect.) From the blueish neon of a cavernous nightclub to the honeyed sheen of a palatial boudoir, the Verhoeven couple grinding over who gets to be on top. A Robbe-Grillet theme, the authoress and the work in progress, the supreme manipulator of fiction and reality with no use for happy endings. "It won't sell." "Why not?" "Somebody has to die." The give-and-take with De Palma reaches its apotheosis in Femme Fatale. Cinematography by Jan de Bont. With Denis Arndt, Bruce A. Young, Chelcie Ross, Wayne Knight, Daniel von Bargen, and Stephen Tobolowsky.
--- Fernando F. Croce |