Joe Eszterhas

Sliver (1993)

Sliver (1993)

(In French, On Cable TV, November 2018) I’m old enough to remember Sliver as a Big Thing back in 1993—almost solely on the basis that this was Sharon Stone’s follow-up to Basic Instinct (1992) and people were wondering if she’d become the Queen of Erotic Thrillers (or something like it) based on how similar both projects sounded and given that both were coming from then-volcanic screenwriter Joe Eszterhas. Stone had quite a career afterwards, but Sliver itself sort of disappeared along the way. A critical disaster but a modest commercial success, it’s one of those very-1990s movies that show up on cable channels once in a while to remind contemporary viewers of the aesthetics of the time. They’re certainly not going to talk about plotting, considering that the simplistic story of the film has to do with a single woman moving into a high-rise with strange tenants and an unsolved murder mystery. After discovering that the owner of the building is a pervert who has installed dozens of cameras inside the building to spy on its residents, the story ends with the discovery of a different murderer only because preview audiences hated the original (and quite predictable) ending. Considering this paper-thin incoherent mystery and a Stone performance best characterized as adequate, aesthetics are the only thing left to discuss. (Not, not the sex scenes, which are comparatively tame.) The early 1990s were a weird time for movies, as the industry was beginning a switch to digital editing and post-production capabilities that allowed many more possibilities, many of them showy and awful. Much of Sliver is spent looking at TV screens, and lending that particular visual style to the film. It’s incredibly dated and not (yet) in a good way. As a result, Sliver isn’t much of a fun watch today, an experienced capped with a terrible ending that attempts to break through the fourth wall, only for the fourth wall to bloody the film’s nose.

Flashdance (1983)

Flashdance (1983)

(On Cable TV, March 2017) Sometimes, watching popular hits from decades past is enough to make you wonder what they were thinking back then. Some movies don’t age well, and for all of the box-office dollars that Flashdance accumulated in 1983, a lot of it just feels silly today. The premise itself seems like a jumble of words, as a welder-by-day and burlesque-dancer-by-night dreams of becoming a professional dancer. The only thing standing in the way of her dreams in a pre-YouTube era is an admission to a dance school. Much of the film is spent on the way from dream to reality, frequently interrupted by music videos. That last part isn’t much of an exaggeration: Director Adrian Lyne clearly aped then-new format of music videos in blatantly stopping the film for musical set pieces, hand-waving them as performance art in a burlesque club. It works up to a point, until we get exasperated that the simplistic story isn’t going anywhere. This focus on music videos is obvious from the wall-to-wall hit soundtracks—alas, it’s all early-eighties pop, which sounds terrible today. At least Jennifer Beals is very likable at the lead—she’s quite a bit better than the movie surrounding her. Flashdance is also notable for bringing together filmmakers who would then go on to have big careers, particularly producers Bruckheimer/Simpson and screenwriter Joe Eszterhas. If you’re not watching from a historical perspective, the film is a dud—the story is linear, the interludes too frequent and the romance is bolted together out of narrative convenience. There are far better movies from 1983, and they have all aged much better than this one.

Basic Instinct (1992)

Basic Instinct (1992)

(Second viewing, On TV, March 2017) I definitely remember seeing Basic Instinct a long time ago (in French, given that I remember the crude final lines as the ridiculous “… comme des castors”) but I’d forgotten enough of it to be mesmerized by a second viewing. Even today, it remains a pedal-to-the-metal borderline-insane thriller, rich in violence and a degree of eroticism seldom matched since then. I ended up watching the unrated version (on a basic-cable movie TV channel … go figure) and it features three of the most graphic sex scenes I can recall from a Hollywood film—the Jeanne Tripplehorn scene alone is worth the watch. Not that the rest of the movie is dull—under the combined daring of screenwriter Joe Eszterhas and director Paul Verhoeven, the film cranks up nearly every single exploitative dial to eleven. It throws in a car chase on twisty backroads because, well, why not? It throws another car chase through downtown San Francisco because, again, why not? When bisexuality and murder are the most ordinary elements of the story, that’s not even getting into the twisted psychos-sexual games played between the two characters. Michael Douglas is in peak form as a risk-addicted policeman, and while Sharon Stone is still remembered for the ice-cold danger she projects, I had forgotten how her character is balanced by some cute impishness. The interrogation sequence has been parodied endlessly, but remains no less effective today in seeing a lone woman defy half a dozen alpha males by sheer (or not-so-sheer) chutzpah. Basic Instinct is pure wilful exploitation, and that’s why it’s so remarkable. The murder mystery is almost besides the point—something that the double-ending practically dies laughing about. I still think it’s far too bloody … but that’s part of the film’s twisted fun. Morally reprehensible yet slickly executed, Basic Instinct almost looks even better twenty-five years later.

American Rhapsody, Joe Eszterhas

Knopf, 2000, 432 pages, C$38.95 hc, ISBN 0-375-41144-5

Let’s see: The screenwriter of BASIC INSTINCT and SHOWGIRLS writes a book-length op-ed about the Clinton/Lewinski affair. If there’s an award for literary irony, American Rhapsody is a automatic winner. Who else would be best equipped to deal with the national trauma of presidential adultery than the man who wrote Sharon Stone’s flash to fame? The man who wrote the trashiest big-budget sexploitation films? Who but, indeed, a Hollywood screenwriter to write about an event that makes even SHOWGIRLS look like high art? If Larry Beinhart can playfully suggest (in American Hero, later filmed as WAG THE DOG) that the first Gulf War was a conspiracy designed for Washington by Hollywood, why not the whole Monicagate?

American Rhapsody stands at the intersection of entertainment and politics, in an American Republic where the two are less and less distinguishable. It stands in an America divided (torn or polarized might be better words) between “left” and “right” in a culture war where vocal minorities of extremists on both sides have the unfortunate tendency to silence the ambivalent majority. American Rhapsody is a series of musings on the aftermath of the sixties, the legacy of Richard Nixon (here brilliantly referred to as “Night Creature”), the status of Bill Clinton as the first rock’n’roll president (or the first baby-boomer president, or the first black president, or the first female president; take your pick) and the inner nature of the dominant political players in 1996-2000. It also stands as a biography of sort for Eszterhas, who tells plenty of salacious anecdotes in a history spanning nearly two decades as one of Hollywood’s army of bitter screenwriters.

By far the most satisfying aspect of American Rhapsody is its willingness to name names, cite facts and use colourful language. This book holds back preciously little, whether in form or in content. Eszterhas obviously paid attention during the whole Lewinski affair, absorbing details long after most of us had overdosed on the entire business. Even though the book makes no attempt at straightforward reporting (no bibliography, no footnotes, no sources, no index), it’s nevertheless stocked with factual detail. One chapter lists five excruciating pages of American scandals since WW2. Another gives the inside story on Clinton’s Vietnam-era behaviour. Yet a third describes Sharon Stone in far more detail than you’ll ever need. It’s a whirlwind trip through American obsessions and it’s very convincing.

But beyond the sleazy facts and the even spicier rumours, it’s Eszterhas’ verve which makes the book worth reading. He is variously amazed, amused and betrayed by Bill Clinton, who embodied most of the liberal virtues, yet was made a national mockery by his actions. Eszterhas knows how to write: the pages of American Rhapsody are filled with nasty little turns of phrases, cool linkages, laugh-out-loud moments and passages of dripping anger. While the second half of the book isn’t as interesting as the first (digressions about characters like James Carville can be fascinating, but they remain digressions nonetheless), this is a unique book. I don’t recall reading something so politically charged, so nakedly expressed, so compulsively readable in a long while.

And this, naturally leads to other issues. Published in 2000, American Rhapsody already belongs to another era, one that seems quaintly appealing in retrospect. The Culture War described by Eszterhas has only grown more vicious, and the neo-conservatives’ reign over the White House has exposed national flaws that Eszterhas could only whisper about. His portrait of Bush Junior (“stupid… and mean”) takes on a frightening quality circa 2003. Heck, after American Rhapsody, it’s not such a stretch to think that if Osama bin Laden and George W. Bush only had affairs with interns once in a while, they wouldn’t go around killing innocent people by proxy so often.

American Rhapsody ought to anger plenty of conservatives, and rightfully so: this is, after all, a piece of ultra-liberal agitprop par excellence. But it’s not all cheers and roses for the Clintons and their ilk either, and this free-flowing, sometimes stream-of-consciousness anger is, almost above everything else, honest. In an age where Washington campaigns are meticulously calculated and Hollywood films are shaped to please commercial requirements, this makes American Rhapsody an even more subversive book. Heck, the fact that it comes from Joe Eszterhas even makes it beautiful as far as I’m concerned. Gonzo Eszterhas as the new Hunter S. Thompson? Another level of irony? If pornographer Larry Flynt can shape the destiny of a nation by stopping an impeachment procedure, why not?