Editorials
The Moralistic Family Values of ‘Fatal Attraction’ [Sex Crimes]
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In the previous installment of my ongoing Sex Crimes column, I explored a failed effort to revitalize the erotic thriller sub-genre in anticipation of Deep Water, the latest film from legendary director Adrian Lyne.
The new film, starring Ben Affleck and Ana de Armas, received mixed reviews following its debut on Hulu in April. This was after a release schedule that included multiple delays, some of which were likely a result of the pandemic, but also perhaps because the studio was unsure how to promote the film.
Still, the lack of enthusiasm for one of the sub genre’s key contributors (if not its most important creative talent) was a little surprising. After all, this is the director behind no less than three of the most iconic texts associated with Erotic Thrillers.
Flashing back to 1987 and Fatal Attraction only puts the current moment in starker contrast. The infidelity thriller features an iconic unhinged performance from Glenn Close alongside Michael Douglas, starting his run as the gold standard for shitty dudes in the 80s and 90s. With a supporting cast that includes Ann Archer as Douglas’s wife Beth and a truly adorable Ellen Latzen as their only child, Fatal Attraction was a cultural phenomenon; the film grossed $156M in North America and $320M worldwide on a modest $14M budget.
So why did this Erotic Thriller hit so hard when it was released 35 years ago? In brief: by amalgamating all of the sexual and political concerns of the mid-to-late-80s in one immensely satisfying package.
As any film historian – and particularly horror fans – can attest, Hollywood has long conflated sex and death. It’s a reliable and lucrative business practice that dates back to the beginning of cinema; it can be seen in the vast majority of the Universal Monster Movies, as well as the femme fatale in Film Noir (a subgenre from which Erotic Thrillers borrow heavily). Although Erotic Thrillers aren’t exclusively driven by death (many of them do not actually feature any fatalities), the “thriller” component leans on the illicit, the danger, and the forbidden, with the ultimate penance for transgressing resulting in imprisonment, isolation, and, yes, death.
Arriving near the end of a decade ravaged by the AIDS epidemic, escalating divorce rates and Reagan-era Conservative politics, Fatal Attraction explored themes and topics that were at the forefront of the cultural zeitgeist. The film features Douglas’ Dan Gallagher, a successful lawyer working in book publishing who is living a perfect middle-class yuppie existence, including a happy marriage with Beth, a healthy young daughter, a dog and a cramped apartment in New York City.
Arguably this picture-perfect existence is the most damning element of Fatal Attraction: Dan has every conceivable aspect of the American Dream, but when he meets editor Alex Forrest – first at a company party, then at a Saturday work meeting – he’s willing to turn his ideal life upside down to pursue an affair with her.
Naturally, this turns out badly for Dan when Alex becomes increasingly possessive of his time and attention, and her intentions escalate from harassment to bunny murder and beyond. The message of the film, taken at face value, is pretty clear and straightforward: even the men who have everything can be tempted to step out on their perfect lives, but the penalty for transgressing could cost them everything (Also: sexually active single women are “crazy”).
This simply, albeit slightly reductive reading of Fatal Attraction is thoroughly in keeping with the conservative bent of the time. The film is built on a foundation of socially constructed fears: hand wringing about the sanctity of marriage at a time when it was statistically falling apart, the dangers inherent in “risky” extramarital sex when fear of HIV infection was at a high (and, importantly, no longer confined exclusively to marginalized gay men), and years of pent-up backlash against female sexuality following the women’s liberation movement of the 70s.
These elements are all starkly on display in the film’s test audience-mandated bombastic ending, wherein Alex becomes a kind of slasher villain who is nearly impossible to kill. It’s telling that the eventual ending is both more bombastic and punitive towards Alex’s character. In the original ending, by contrast, Dan was imprisoned for Alex’s murder after she dies by suicide. This original treatment would have effectively “punished” both members of the affair.
Instead, the infamous ending only punishes Alex: first, she is drowned by Dan, then she is shot to death by Beth. The married couple, who have been separated for most of the film’s last act, come together as a unified front to battle Alex and, tellingly, it is Beth, the “innocent” victim of Dan’s infidelity, who strikes the final blow against the adulterous woman who threatened her marriage.
In this way Fatal Attraction adheres to the conventions of both film noir and melodrama: transgressors are brought back into the socially acceptable fold (Dan: with his milquetoast heterosexual Norman Rockwell-esque marriage) or dispatched (Alex: whose ferocious sexual appetite could never be allowed to go unpunished). In this way, Fatal Attraction, particularly its climax, embodies the conservative family values of the mid-to-late-80s.
What’s fascinating is how the film’s messaging has been turned on its head over time. As noted by Gena Radcliffe in a recent Kill By Kill episode on the film, the comments section of YouTube clips of Fatal Attraction not only hypothesize about Alex’s potential undiagnosed mental illness(es), but also identifies Dan as the true villain, in no small part for leading Alex on and encouraging their affair.
Of course, there’s a great deal more to Fatal Attraction than its moralistic family-first messaging; it features incredibly assured direction by Lyne, a number of smoldering sex scenes that contemporary films are sadly lacking, and Archer and Latzen are among the most fleshed-out family members in any Erotic Thriller. The film remains the gold standard template for the subgenre, even though its sexual politics are firmly rooted in the concerns of the time.
What’s shocking is how approximately a decade later a studio film would come along that is so brazen and audacious that it makes even the most scandalous elements of Fatal Attraction feel tame by comparison.
That’s next month on Sex Crimes.
Sex Crimes is a new column that explores the legacy of erotic thrillers, from issues of marital infidelity to inappropriate underage affairs to sexualized crimes. In this subgenre, sex and violence are inexplicably intertwined as the dangers of intercourse take on a whole new meaning.
College kids, strippers and vampires—those were Donald P. Borchers’ only requirements when he approached Richard Wenk about writing and directing a movie for New World Pictures. As requested, Wenk cooked up Vamp (1986), a tailor-made blend of the decade’s teen movie craze as well as its horror boom.
Grim and earnest stories were still very much a part of the ’80s horror landscape, yet Vamp is something of a comedy. One difference between it and, say, Saturday the 14th, though, is the former avoids using schtick. Wenk’s movie proves that horror comedies also don’t have to subtract thrills from their recipes. Of course, it takes a minute before reaching that point; college antics and culture shocks preface this one macabre misadventure.
Vamp‘s initial setup is apt for a typical college-set, sex-driven comedy; to bribe their way into a fraternity house, two pledges (Chris Makepeace, Robert Rusler) go looking for some adult entertainment. Without wasting time on any further exposition, the characters embark on an all-in-one-night trip that quickly detours into terror.
To procure their elusive MacGuffin—a stripper willing to gyrate for some frat boys—Keith (Makepeace) and AJ (Rusler), plus a third wheel named Duncan (Gedee Watanabe), trade the safety of their remote college campus for the seediness of some unnamed city. The setting is recognizably L.A. by day, but as soon as night falls, downtown, along with the characters, slips into a kind of surreal universe. Director of photography Elliot Davis gave this early entry on his prolific résumé an unusual yet distinctive look; that Mario Bava-esque, magenta-green lighting is omnipresent, so much so that it’s almost its own character.
Chris Makepeace and Robert Rusler in Vamp
The faint comparisons to Martin Scorsese’s After Hours are merited, although not just because of Vamp’s distinguishing nighttime aesthetic. Save for the primary characters, the supporting roles in Wenk’s movie are also quite colorful and transactional in their behavior. The difference here, though, is the additional urge to ruin Keith and his friends at every turn. Some of that harm is humorous and tolerable enough, whereas the moment Vamp dishes out its first fatality, it’s abundantly clear how this movie qualifies as horror.
Vamp falls into that category of horror movie that reveals its genre with a scream rather than a series of whispers. The opening scene can function as a hint of what lies ahead—things are not at all what they appear to be—but otherwise, Wenk is more than happy to hold off on the horror. When that time does come, though, it catches the viewer off guard. In addition to the pure shock value is that sudden decision to upend the movie’s foremost feature. Or so it would seem.
If afraid of major spoilage, those new to Vamp would be wise to stop reading here. There’s just no skirting around the fact that the central fellowship in this buddy movie hits a serious snag when AJ is killed. That development causes the story to become more of a “long, bad night” journey for Keith and his romantic interest. So while Wenk scores points for subverting expectations, there is also a touch of sadness in his decision. Because if Vamp does anything well, it’s making the characters likable.
Something that comes easily to Vamp—and other teen horror movies from this same era—is its ability to invent young characters worth caring about, or at the very least, are interesting and not so immediately off-putting. More impressive is how Wenk did all this without actually fleshing out those characters. Still and all, Keith and his kind are a grade above cookie-cutter, and in some cases, aren’t completely devoid of growth.
Grace Jones in Vamp
Vamp appeals with an assorted cast of characters. No two are the same, nor are they operating on the same wavelength. The cinematically extroverted AJ, whose actor conveyed charm and vulnerability in near equal amounts, comes alive when he’s at his most undead. Makepeace then makes the chronically cautious Keith a sympathetic fellow, even as he’s more and more affected by the night’s bizarre events. Meanwhile, Duncan is indeed the designated loser of the whole bunch, but Watanabe still manages to humanize him. As a bonus, the role didn’t require him to pull a Long Duk Dong.
As for Dedee Pfeiffer, she is plain adorable as the mysterious After Dark server nicknamed “Amaretto”. She spends all night fixing her dress strap while at the same time trying to get Keith to remember how he knows her. As their offbeat romance grows, it becomes another highlight of this movie. Whether or not Pfeiffer’s character is really a vampire also creates some welcome tension in the story.
Like a lot of its contemporaries, Vamp went on to become a bit of a cult classic. That current status is determined by several factors, but without a doubt, the casting of Grace Jones is the most considerable. The image of her writhing on that unique-looking chair, a Keith Haring original, springs to mind whenever this movie is brought up.
Chris Makepeace, Billy Drago and Paunita Nichols in Vamp
Prior to that first display of unequivocal horror, local vampire queen Katrina (Jones) took to the stage and delivered a strip show like no other. One would expect nothing less from that renowned model and performance artist. By now reports of Jones’ tardiness on set are no secret, yet it’s also hard to deny her commitment to the part of Katrina. It was, in fact, Jones who took charge of her character’s appearance—on top of Haring painting her body and that now-iconic chair, she had Andy Warhol handle her costuming. And not too many actors could seize a room’s attention without saying a single line of dialogue.
In 2022, Vamp received a retrospective novelization from Encyclopocalypse. This literary union of preexisting source material—Wenk’s original screenplay—and new ideas from author Christian Francis amounts to a more comprehensive visit to the After Dark Club. The basic story there is no different than what’s shown on screen; however, Francis gets creative with the characters’ origins and designs, and he enhances a number of key scenes.
The novelization expands on the urban and social decay of the main setting, and supplies a background for the After Dark Club. Sandy Baron’s character, Katrina’s emcee and familiar, is given ample motivation for sticking around; up until the fiery end, he is loyal to his friend and former business partner “Squeak”, who looks like he was “fed through a combine harvester, and left as nothing more than a heap of mangled remains”. Then there is Billy Drago’s character Snow, the leader of a street gang called The Dragons. His reason for menacing Keith and AJ is more altruistic than in the movie; he and his peers act tough to scare off any potential food for the vampires.
Lisa Lyon in Vamp
If not for all the backstories, Francis’ Vamp would be a hell of a lot shorter. Instead, this tie-in read dives into how AJ met Keith—the orphaned Anthony Joseph hailed from a broken home back in Brooklyn—and how their friendship flourished over the years. Keith’s archership is no longer just an assumed part of his entire being; it’s a confidence-building extracurricular for a boy who got picked on before coming into the protection of the new kid in town. These supplemental, in-depth looks at the protagonists, plus their close connection, are maybe unnecessary. The movie already did a fair and concise job of addressing their platonic intimacy without the need for flashbacks and insights, specifically in that scene where AJ lays it all out as he sacrifices himself.
Where the novelization gets off course is its approach to the minor characters. Intermittently backstorying the likes of Katrina’s indentured servants, Seko (Leila Hee Olsen) and Vlad (Brad Logan), ends up disturbing the flow of the writing. Was it absolutely essential that readers know Vlad was the Grand Duke of the House of Romanov, or how Snow’s accomplice Maven (Paunita Nichols) became so dentally challenged? No, not really. However, one’s mileage with these random biographies may vary.
The novelization is a more substantial experience, but for a movie like Vamp, less is more. And as plentiful as they are, it never simply coasts on its campy charms, either. The character work sits comfortably in that realm between cursory and meticulous, the script is sharper than first realized, and Greg Cannom’s vampire makeup is straightforward yet effective. Most of all, the movie didn’t squander its out-of-the-box concept. Richard Wenk made his vision of a “comic nightmare in which just about anything that can go wrong does” come true, and it is very enjoyable.
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