.png)
Sex, like anything else in film, can be a welcomed addition or gratuitous fodder — and in saying this I’d like to clearly mark myself an outlier from either side in regards to the incessant cyclical discourse that unrelentingly perpetuates cinematic discourse far and wide. I find excess of any kind — be it sex, CGI, or vacuous verbosity — to be detrimental to the synchronized cohesion that’s emblematic of a successful picture. Intention is paramount, by far the most definitive arbitrator in appraising measures of any kind. How are we wielding sex?, it begs, priming us to deeper excavate its efficacy and inclusion. Is it to shock and titillate, whether for good or ill? Or perhaps a manifestation of personal perversion with nowhere else to go? Is it intrinsic to the film’s timbre, aligning thematically to arouse an overarching eroticism? Or is it something else entirely — an easy engagement ploy to harness intrigue and secure profit employed solely as a strategic business scheme? Current trends suggest the latter, breeding ubiquity and tedium by substituting filler sex in place of something far rawer. It’s a total no-brainer and an easy way to cut corners: sex sells and always will, regardless of its purported artistic merit. There exists an inherent ontological correlation between off-screen and on-screen sex that more or less exemplifies my argument and posits an even deeper purpose: that both are subjective and collaborative, ailing from communicational disconnects and uneven terrain. What may translate as a blissful dalliance for one party could register just the opposite for the other, implying a multitude of things ranging from dissociation to self-interest and everything in between. The same is true for sex in cinema: it is imperative that the director crafts such scenes with an audience in mind, aiming to reciprocate the same pleasure he reaps in orchestrating these sequences. The astute observer can keenly differentiate between tasteful eroticism and uninspired exploitation, two very antithetical outcomes cut from the same cloth that will ultimately aid or abet the final product.
Purpose breeds power, and the same is true of sex: when lyrically woven into the core fabric of narrative it is disarmingly potent and thunderously illuminating — a corporeal coup de grace that sizzles rhythmically, each plunge probing to unveil the darkest depths of our vulnerabilities. Reflections birthed in frenzied trysts ricochet like maverick firecrackers, rich with bombastic potential. It holds us hostage in immersive suspense until its explosive reveal. It is this carnal inertia that takes responsibility for thrusting the story forward, a primal hunger never satiated to total contentment — intoxicating when utilized at peak form. No film better demonstrates this achievement than Lawrence Kasdan’s searing neo-noir, BODY HEAT, where one can bear witness to the blistering sensuality of its omnipotent femme fatale.
Kasdan’s film is, in my opinion, the quintessential paradigm of neo-noir, imbuing foundational archetypes with sensuality to provide a viewing experience that is immersive as it is enrichening. This careful and nuanced approach is instrumental in faithfully capturing the femme fatale, accentuating her intellectual cunning and agency in favor of a hypersexualized myopia that encourages objectification. Sex is her weapon, not her weakness, and thus must be leveraged to show empowerment rather than degradation.
Consider the emphases in place when Matty Walker (Kathleen Turner) is introduced — how she, distinguished even in a crowd, confidently departs to linger idly on the pier — a fierce display of independent volition. She dons an elegant white ensemble that’s sexy and sophisticated, preying on imagination to elicit arousal. Notice how Ned Racine (William Hurt) trails her hypnotically, unable to shake his awe of her presence; she coyly courts his intrigue only to vanish moments later. There’s a brilliant, calculated coolness to her every move and ministration which Turner captures with effortless aplomb, even down to the subtle glint of subterfuge peeking behind her guarded expression.
Kasdan frames his film with sly finesse and ensconces the viewer into vicarious and voyeuristic complicity in depicting Ned’s erotic fascination with Matty, unknowingly breeding gullibility in both viewer and hero as she begins to dominate his world. He seeks her out at another local dive to be met with amused nonchalance. Matty remains aloof, but doesn’t rebuff his advances. She stalls deliberately before inviting him over to see her wind chimes, which he accepts. Sexual tension hangs taut and heavy between the two; Matty sends him on his way, knowing well that Ned will buckle under self-restraint. In allowing him to break through and fuck her, Matty cleverly dupes him into thinking that he is the one in control, playing up her desperation until they climax.
With her target now sexually conquered and at her mercy, Matty begins to surreptitiously weave her deceptive masterplan. She preys upon his empathy by hyperbolizing the faults of her marriage, reacting in a calculated display of horror when Ned idly suggests killing off her husband. She satisfies her sybaritic needs in the guise of appearing needy to further manipulate Ned, who answers eagerly and readily, believing her to be as madly in love with him as he is with her.
The collaborative synchronicity between Turner and Kasdan is rich, robust, and riveting — her performance is intuitive and astute, adherently attuned to his outward motivational aims as well as the ones internally contained within her character. I watched the film twice in rapid succession, and was blindsided on account of her charisma on my initial viewing. In showing it to a friend, I watched her wrestle that same disbelief, flummoxed and fascinated when that moment of recognition finally dawned. It’s exhilarating to witness her control and mastery of such a role; unfathomably incandescent and singular in being one of the greatest screen debuts of all time.
Thorough examination of their sexual liaison reveals Matty’s underlying strategy in high gear. Aside from their first encounter (and a few consequent exceptions), it is Matty who continually initiates sex rather than Ned, a subtle display of her dominance and efficacy as she coerces Ned to carry out her wishes. Her continual willingness obstructs his ability to reason rationally. Warnings from well-meaning friends and colleagues engender vitriolic outbursts of falsely inferred betrayal, only fortifying his trust in Matty. Ned is only able to narrowly avoid death in a lucky stroke of fate, when his friend relays critical intel that rouses just enough doubt to prevent him from a grisly demise.
Even under the heat of confrontation Matty immaculately upholds her farce. When Ned points out the impossibility of her logic, Matty pleads ignorant and maintains her innocence. Ned, well aware that the boathouse has been rigged with an explosive, dares Matty to fetch the alleged evidence — her husband’s glasses — by herself. In a shocking and unexpected turn, she obliges, professing her love for Ned before approaching the boathouse. Just as we’re convinced that Matty Walker is done and through, she blindsides us to victoriously triumph one last time in orchestrating the perfect pseudo-suicide. Inside the boathouse lay the remains of her friend “Mary Ann,” who is revealed to be the real Matty Walker, ensuring a clean getaway by unequivocally compromising the autopsy to soundly declare her “dead.” When this realization finally befalls Ned, it is far too late — he has done time and she is long gone, thriving in blessed anonymity in the tropics. Matty Walker emerges the victor, entirely unscathed and drowning in the opulence of her late husband.
Her survival marks an unprecedented departure for noir and even neo-noir in that she goes entirely unpunished. Such an achievement celebrates her competency as well as her womanhood, turning traditional gender expectations on their head by reclaiming and employing her sexuality for her own benefit. She is a fully liberated woman, no longer oppressed by patriarchal hypocrisy but conversely liberated by embracing her power with great relish. How monumentally satisfactory it is that a woman is recognized for her sharp intellect above all else even in spite of her sexual freedom — that her triumph inspires respect rather than degradation.
Thus, every instance of sex in BODY HEAT is a necessary expanse, steering the film forward toward thematic cohesion. Kasdan’s deft direction preserves every sizzling ounce of eroticism, always careful to tow the line in avoiding pornographic sensationalism. We can marvel at Matty’s sexual emancipation and her grounding integrity that espouses sex and being, thwarting exploitation and preserving identity. How she fucks transactionally to remain emotionally detached, yet hooks unsuspecting victims with minimal effort. If Matty Walker were indeed a man nobody would bat an eye at such behavior — but because she is a woman, her actions threaten the sanctity and stature of masculine virility. This is sex at its most strategic and effective, provocative at every turn and a pensive meditation on societal constructs.
Sex for sex’s sake is often an ineffective waste — and in saying this I’d like to clarify that I align with neither camp as far as discourse goes, and have written this solely to critically examine our ever-changing relationship with sex. I do believe transparency is a good thing, that the advent of the neo-noir in turn bolstered its originating depths — but I also believe that with transparency comes pervasion, which can and often does breed indifference as well as stifle imagination. BODY HEAT strikes that perfect balance made possible only by careful deliberation, constructing a framework contingent on sex without ever losing spark or luster. As such, it is deserving of proper recognition — and in writing this I can only hope to inspire others to applaud its artistry.
コメント