BASIC INSTINCT
A review in the public domain
by The Phantom
(sbb@panix.com)
(As we are currently suffering from a serious horror drought, the Phantom thought he would take this opportunity to branch out into the world of the exploitation film and make the big-budget soft-core BASIC INSTINCT the subject of his first review. The Phantom feels that reviewing exploitation films is well within his artistic reach, even though the two genres are so markedly different. In a horror film, we watch as first someone is murdered, then someone else disrobes, then someone else is murdered, etc. In an exploitation film, on the other hand, we watch as first someone disrobes, then someone is murdered, then someone else disrobes, etc. The Phantom will, of course, endeavor to keep that subtle distinction in mind as he writes his reviews, and if at any time he feels himself not well enough qualified to critically appraise the myriad nuances of the exploitation genre, he will return to the familiar world of the horror film without hesitation.)
The Phantom needed little more inducement to lay down his $7.50 for Paul Verhoeven's latest film than that which was provided by the high-concept plot summary: cynical, burnt-out cop becomes mysteriously (and dangerously, if we may be so bold) attracted to beautiful, rich, naked bisexual woman who does/does not kill people with an ice pick.
Any six words in that sentence would be enough to part the Phantom from his hard-earned money; but the tantalizing thought that a film might contain all thirty was enough to transport him to exploitation film heaven. After all, even if only a handful of those words were fully exploited by the film, BASIC INSTINCT would still be quite a slam-bang, action-packed, sex- and violence-drenched exercise in voyeurism with little or no obvious redeeming social value -- the very definition of a successful and wildly entertaining exploitation film.
Add to the mix Paul Verhoeven's reputation as a director for whom the ordinary limits of taste and restraint have little or no meaning -- and Sharon Stone's reputation for being, well, rather easy on the eyes without any clothes on -- and the Phantom's expectations were high indeed as he ventured uptown to see BASIC INSTINCT in THX sound (the idea being that THX sound would show off Jerry Goldsmith's score to best advantage, or at least make it loud enough to drown out the sounds of the Lexington Avenue line as it rumbled underneath the theater; when one lives in New York, loudness and quality frequently go hand in hand).
But somewhere between the idea and the execution, something went a little wrong. Perhaps Joe Eszterhas delivered only a rough outline for his $3 million story; perhaps coherent endings -- like batteries for cheap toys -- are not included for such a paltry sum of money. (Aside to Tri-Star: assuming you're not yet in bankruptcy and you need an ending for your next exploitation film, the Phantom is ready and willing to provide one -- one that even makes sense -- for the low, low price of only $9,999.95. Have your people call my people and we'll do lunch.)
Whatever the reason, though, BASIC INSTINCT's biggest problem is its script. Even before the film limps to its shockingly shoddy conclusion, signs that trouble is on the way appear to us with the passing of nearly every scene. Eszterhas has the characters doing any one of three things at each point in the film: getting into a car; driving in a car; getting out of a car; walking up to a doorway; knocking on a door; walking through a doorway; walking into a room; walking out of a room. And having sex, of course. Sometimes characters do more than one of these things in a single scene; sometimes characters do more than one of these things at a time. But quite a lot of BASIC INSTINCT is given over to these nine activities, and after about a half hour, the audience begins to realize that something is missing. Real life, for a start. At no point in BASIC INSTINCT do we ever feel that the characters exist in the real world; Eszterhas has effectively created a very closed, claustrophobic and artificial world for a film that can only be effective when we see the effects of the story line on the characters' "external" lives. One of the reasons FATAL ATTRACTION was so successful is that we were able to see Michael Douglas' character as a real person -- someone with whom we might possibly identify or at least sympathize -- and not as just one more cardboard character being stalked by a Jasonized killer. Consider, too, Jimmy Stewart in VERTIGO, a film that encompasses the very definition of an improbable and artificial plot. Yet watching it, we never get the sense that Stewart is simply going through the motions; instead, we feel that he's a real person who gets caught up in extraordinary events -- a hallmark of Hitchcock's greatest work, and the bare minimum needed for successful and effective suspense.
After the script, BASIC INSTINCT suffers from another common problem: that of a talented director of niche films directing something well beyond his range as a director. Verhoeven is one of the best when it comes to violent, action-packed techno-thrillers like ROBOCOP and TOTAL RECALL; however, putting aside the few killings that Eszterhas' script calls for, the bulk of BASIC INSTINCT is given over to the relationship between Douglas and Stone. It is a plot tailor-made for Brian DePalma (and in a better and more refined time, for Alfred Hitchcock), who proved he could handle just this sort of story in BODY DOUBLE. Verhoeven even pulls a DePalma when he lifts the steamy kissing sequence from NOTORIOUS; alas, it's one of the few scenes in which Douglas and Stone generate any real heat. Of course, they're seen naked in and out of bed, together and apart so many times that it becomes almost boring; yet this only proves that athletic sex is not an adequate substitute for genuine interest, even though we as an audience have our eyes glued to the screen all the while. Verhoeven, whatever his talents, has yet to learn that graphic violence is usually a poor substitute for genuine horror; and that soft-core pornography is almost always a poor substitute for genuine passion. Apparently Verhoeven operated on the principle that if it wasn't possible to show a car chase or a murder, the story would be advanced best by having either Douglas or Stone disrobe; while this seems like a reasonable idea at the beginning of the film, by about mid-way through even the sight of Douglas' naked rear-end -- featured prominently in a scene that was apparently designed as a showcase for his derriere -- fails to lift our spirits or hold our interest.
It is because we never believe that Douglas is deeply and emotionally involved with Stone that BASIC INSTINCT begins to fall apart; without our emotional commitment, what difference does it make whether or not Stone is the killer? Thus all of the artificial plot twists and turns come to naught, and by the time the credits roll we feel that perhaps some vital part of the film had been cut. Contrast this with the denouement of VERTIGO: by the time Hitchcock ends his classic film, we've strongly identified with Jimmy Stewart and thus we can share his pain and bewilderment; in other words, we can have a genuine emotional experience. BASIC INSTINCT is a cheat, because all we get to do is watch.
Sadly, even Jerry Goldsmith doesn't come through for us in his usual exemplary fashion. His score attempts to place BASIC INSTINCT squarely in Hitchcock's world, but try as it does, it never quite fits with the action on screen. Perhaps this is because Verhoeven is unable to generate any sustained suspense; perhaps it is because the audience is relegated to the role of voyeur rather than partner as the film unfolds. In any case, Goldsmith's score tends to pounce on us at unlikely times and attempt to coerce us into feeling anxious. Half the time -- and even as Eszterhas has his characters knocking on doors or walking around outside houses -- Goldsmith's score keeps swelling up in the background, itself growing somewhat tiresome and repetitious as it pounds away at inert scene after inert scene. The other half of the time, we're all too busy waiting for Douglas and Stone to take their clothes off to notice whether Goldsmith is still hammering away with his quasi-Hitchcockian score or whether he's switched to a test of the Emergency Broadcast System.
This said, the Phantom should hasten to add that BASIC INSTINCT is by no means a terrible film -- it's just not a very good one. DePalma could get away with his incessant references to and liberal borrowings from Hitchcock because his films stood on their own merits, and because he was able to take plot snippets and ideas with which we were all familiar and give them his own special gloss (that being straight-razor murders and Melanie Griffith in her underwear). Whatever their faults, DRESSED TO KILL and BODY DOUBLE are stylish, entertaining and fun -- each the very definition of a successful exploitation film. (Leonard Maltin disdains BODY DOUBLE and calls it "another sleazy fetish film," which only goes to show that he wouldn't know a good exploitation film if it stabbed him with an ice pick. Coincidentally, the Phantom has himself used the phrase when describing a film, but only when his phrase-O-matic is set to "high praise"; after all, if we don't all want to go see "another sleazy fetish film," what do we want to see?)
And BASIC INSTINCT does have its pluses: the two biggest being Sharon Stone and Sharon Stone without any clothes on. Both she and Douglas both do as well as can be expected, given the unlikely plot, near-illiterate script and given that they're forced to spend much of their screen time "****ing like minks", to use three charming words we get to hear on at least a half dozen occasions. (One of these scenes later is described by Douglas as "the **** of the century", which gives you a pretty fair indication of the level of Mr. Eszterhas' script.) There is also the now-infamous "interrogation scene," which features Ms. Stone's legs and other parts of her anatomy. This scene is wildly over-directed by Verhoeven, whose ever-so-subtle touch has the actors frantically pantomiming embarrassment as Ms. Stone makes herself more comfortable; if this were the 1920s and had not the miracle of sound recording become part of our lives 60 years ago, the interrogation scene would likely be more believable than it is. (It *was* affecting, however, in its own overwrought way.)
The film's resolution is a disappointment to all, and in fact is so bad that the Phantom wonders who -- other than Mr. Eszterhas -- could possibly have liked it or thought it an appropriate way to end a suspense thriller. It is only a small consolation that by the time we reach the film's final scene, we have long since ceased to care what happens to Douglas and Stone or even who the killer really is. In writing BASIC INSTINCT, Eszterhas has mistaken Hitchcock's famous "MacGuffin" for the film's central theme; instead of concentrating on the characters and using the murders as a convenient way for them to become further involved -- emotionally involved -- with each other, Eszterhas' script spins its wheels as clue after pointless clue is revealed to an audience that longs not for MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS, but REAR WINDOW.
Speaking of which, Hitchcock's classic films are, as always, readily available at your local Blockbusters; phans who don't plan on (ice) picking BASIC INSTINCT for their weekend's entertainment would be well advised to rent any of the (much better) films from which Eszterhas and Verhoeven have liberally borrowed. And if the Phantom's memory serves, three minutes of Grace Kelly or Kim Novak fully clothed are more likely to capture our interest and attention than 30 minutes of Sharon Stone proving that she doesn't wear any underwear. At the very least, you won't have to look at Jimmy Stewart's naked rear-end, which is practically reason enough to rent one or more of these classic films and avoid BASIC INSTINCT.
: The Phantom : sbb@panix.com : cmcl2! panix!sbb
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