Director: Paul Verhoeven
Cast: Michael Douglas, Sharon Stone, George Dzunda, Jeanne Tripplehorn
Have I Seen it Before: You know, never. I’m 7 when this thing comes out, and it always, even thiry-plus years later it feels somewhat scandalous to watch it. Even now, my wife comes into the room right in the middle of the interrrogation scene, asks me what I’m watching, and there’s a sustained seven seconds worth of “Uh…” before I remember I’m 41 and don’t have anything to hide.
Did I Like It: There’s so many obvious things one can say about the movie. Joe Esterhaus clearly has a lot of issues with women. Sexual politics have changed so much since the 1990s that the movie may only be suitable for anthropologists now. Just because Catherine Tramell (Stone, at perhaps her most Sharon Stone-y) doesn’t kill Curran (Douglas, at perhaps his most Michael Douglas-y) just then, doesn’t mean he’s he’s not going to fall asleep in twenty minutes and she’ll do it then.
There are even some moments of fun in the film. I saw that Rob Bottin was involved as the opening credits unfurled, and I couldn’t fathom what he would have to contribute to such a film, and then some poor schnook gets an ice pick through the soft parts of his face.
But what I really want to talk about is one of the deepest, most unrelenting laughs I’ve had while watching a movie in a long while. The noir-ish elements of the plot have to eventually come together, but did it have to come together as Douglas looks at two different pictures of Jeanne Tripplehorn, one of which is so spectacularly obvious in its attempt to photo-shop a blond wig onto her head? He even flips back and forth between the two, just so America of 1992 can clearly see what is going on, and 2026 America can’t help but keep laughing.