By Ben Bussey
Warning: spoilers, sideboob and man-ass ahead…
‘Sex sells.’ The old maxim has always rung true, and no doubt always will. However, back in the 1990s that time-honoured notion was taken to an altogether different level. The major movie studios had not yet developed that obsession with making everything PG-13/12A rated, so a great many of the decade’s biggest hits carried restrictive ratings, and in many cases these ratings were to do with sexual content. Quite why this was, who can say; no doubt there’s an argument in there that a certain President Clinton and Monica Lewinsky might have had something to do with it. Either way, this was the decade that saw Sharon Stone become one of the biggest stars in the world on the back of her leg-crossing, Michael Douglas-straddling turn in Paul Verhoeven’s Basic Instinct, the massive box office success of which sparked a slew of similarly sweaty mainstream movies like Sliver, Body of Evidence, Disclosure and so on.
But, by the mid-90s, the age of the ‘erotic’ blockbuster seemed to be already drawing to a close. It was all too easy to mock the absurdity of the movies, and the narcissism of the stars; this was around the time when Dennis Pennis prompted TV viewers to piss themselves with laughter by asking Demi Moore whether, if it was not gratuitous and tastefully done, she would consider keeping her clothes on in a movie. Following the one-two punch of the much-derided Showgirls (1995) and Striptease (1996), Hollywood began to shy away from softcore, leaving it to crawl back to the direct-to-video market with the likes of the Poison Ivy series. Sure, Kubrick’s swansong Eyes Wide Shut came in 1999, which had at least a hint of mass appeal thanks to the presence of the not-yet-divorced Cruise and Kidman, but its art house alienation tactics never stood a chance of winning over a wider audience (and I’d wager we’ll be able to say much the same of Von Trier’s Nymphomaniac later this year). By my estimation, the real last gasp for 90s multiplex erotica came with the John McNaughton-directed film which hit UK cinemas on 15th May 1998. Not necessarily the kind of film we might have expected from the guy who made Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, it was a glossy, big budget thriller with a name cast, boasting a complex plot driven by multiple protagonists. It was also positively oozing with thick, hot sleaze from every pore on its leathery-suntanned skin.
The movie was Wild Things, and for a generation of hormonally charged adolescents (and many older viewers too no doubt), it made our hearts sing. Bad pun, I know. But this is the movie in which a short-shorts clad Denise Richards goes to Matt Dillon’s house to wash his car and asks him where his hose is, so forgive me for not being too concerned with subtlety or good taste here. Indeed, subtlety and taste were not all that high on Hollywood’s list of priorities in the 90s – if they never have been, really…
It all starts out like any story one might have seen recounted on Jerry Springer at the time. In the affluent Florida town of Blue Bay, scandal breaks out when respected school counsellor Sam Lombardo (Matt Dillon) is accused of rape by high school cheerleader Kelly Van Ryan (Denise Richards), daughter of the town’s richest and subsequently most powerful woman, Sandra Van Ryan (Theresa Russell). Whether or not he’s guilty, we don’t know; but it’s immediately apparent that, guilty or not, he’s screwed, given the filthy rich always have the best lawyers, and all he can afford is strip mall shyster Ken Bowden (Bill fuckin’ Murray). Things look even bleaker when a second schoolgirl, trailer trash tearaway Suzie Toller (Neve Campbell), comes forward and claims Lombardo raped her too. But of course, things are not quite as simple as they might initially seem, and it soon transpires there’s a twist in the tale. And then there’s a twist in that tale. And then a twist in that tale. And so it goes; but not content with getting very twisty-turny, Wild Things is also keen to get naughty… real freaky-naughty…
It is interesting to note how mainstream representations of sex have changed since the 90s. After almost a decade of non-stop horror remakes and torture films, violence in mainstream cinema has almost certainly grown more extreme, whereas sex has been brushed to the side somewhat. If we look at the sauciest mainstream films of recent years, more often than not they tend to be comedies – the ‘Frat Pack’/Apatow films, the Hangovers and so forth – wherein the desires, fetishes and hang-ups of the characters are typically the source of the humour. Failing that, it might be the in-your-face aggressive sexuality showcased in Spring Breakers and Piranha 3D, which ultimately leads the characters into a world of hurt. In short, nowadays we seem happy to point and laugh at the sex drive, or see people punished for acting on it. So few mainstream movies nowadays are comfortable wading deep into sex and simply revelling in it, unrepentantly, with no ironic detachment or underlying morality. Wild Things does this with the best of them. It’s out-and-out sleazy and doesn’t care who knows it, and that’s the principle reason it’s so much fun.
From the very beginning this film makes no bones whatsoever about being an in-your-face raunch-fest, with its persistent droning saxophones on the soundtrack, scantily clad cast forever glistening with sweat, and constant sexual references in almost every dialogue exchange. The subject is on everyone’s minds from start to finish, young and old alike; the high school girls lust openly after their hunky guidance counsellor, while he quietly lusts after them back; the detectives investigating the case are often little more than legally protected Peeping Toms. Every conversation invariably comes around, sooner or later, to the subject of who the people in question are fucking, and/or who they were fucking, and/or who they’d like to be fucking, and in the few instances in which the subject is not broached directly there’s either an innuendo or a blunt vulgarity to fill the void. To use an suitable innuendo of my own, there’s very little beating around the proverbial bush here. Hell, the very first words we hear out of Denise Richards’ perpetually pouty lips are “fuck off.”
Watching the opening titles and looking at the poster art above, it seems strange now that Denise Richards doesn’t get her name above the title. Wild Things was sold most heavily on her presence at the time, and it’s remembered best for it since. And yes, when I say ‘her presence’ I do of course mean her breasts. There’s barely a moment she appears onscreen without the camera slowly, almost imperceptibly dipping and drawing in to perv on her shapely form. All this in spite of the fact that, really, her actual nude scenes are quite brief. Factor in the absence of any nudity from Neve Campbell, and despite the overall tone of pure sleaze, Wild Things is in fact not a very explicit film at all. Few seem to remember that the film’s most full-on sex scene occurs quite early on, and involves Theresa Russell’s iron-fisted matriarch. The notorious, pivotal ménage à trois scene is in truth pretty tame, fading to black before they really get to business without that much skin on show beforehand; likewise Richards and Campbell’s Dillon-less love scene later. Contrast these with the lengthy, comparatively unflinching mattress mambo sequences in Basic Instinct and Body of Evidence, and Wild Things isn’t really much to write home about. But this was 1998. The internet hadn’t really taken off yet, and as such hardcore pornography had not yet achieved the omnipresence it now knows. Subsequently, for a mainstream movie to showcase a threesome – even a brief, inexplicit and, it must be said, rather awkward and unnatural one – was a considerably bigger deal than it might necessarily be today.
True story: one of my housemates at university had a VHS copy of Wild Things which, whenever I borrowed it, was perpetually stopped at this point in the tape. Not that I had borrowed the tape to, ahem, review that specific scene myself or anything…
One of the most important things to note about Wild Things, however, is its sincerity. It is this quality above all else that makes it a considerably more genuine piece of exploitation than the vast majority of the oh-so-knowing pseudo-exploitation/grindhouse we see so much of these days (not that I want to start rabbiting on about that again). The plot gets tangled up in twist after twist, and everything gets increasingly ridiculous as the running time drags on – at almost two hours, Wild Things is undeniably a little overlong – yet for the duration it is played almost entirely straight. Sure, they’re having some fun with it, but crucially they’re never making fun of it; not even Bill Murray, who, though cast primarily as the comic relief, plays his big courtroom drama scene straight enough to do Matlock proud.
However, no one comes off as taking it quite so seriously as Neve Campbell. As we’ve seen since the Scream series ended (I don’t count that fourth instalment – hell, I’d rather not count the third either), over the years she has retreated increasingly to smaller, more dramatic indie fare than the sort of mainstream stuff in which she made her name. Taking the comparatively edgy role of bisexual bad girl Suzie would seem to be intended as a step in that direction. But here’s the thing… Neve Campbell is awful in Wild Things. She really is. I hadn’t realised quite how bad she is in this film until revisiting it for this article. Every gesture, every movement, every attempt at a little quirk, the way she lifts her fist whenever threatened as though it’s her instinctive reaction – all of it comes off so painfully forced, it’s laughable. All that considered, it’s no surprise she looks even more uncomfortable in the pervy bits. However, the other thing is – for exploitation, that’s perfect. Historically, those appearing in exploitation films weren’t playing it for laughs the way most do today; there was no irony involved at all. They weren’t even conscious that what they were making was exploitation. They wanted to be taken seriously, and subsequently gave serious performances, and the fact that they failed miserably – hey presto, instant paracinema. So it is with Wild Things. But we can at least say that nothing Campbell does here is anywhere near as unconvincing as her English accent in The Glass Man. (Not that many people are likely to have seen that, as it still hasn’t had a wide release. To be honest, you’re not missing that much.)
Still, disregarding any concerns about how natural any of it is or how much celebrity skin is shown, Wild Things ensures that fans of hot lesbo action get their money’s worth. One area where the film does undeniably wimp out, however, is the relationship between Matt Dillon and Kevin Bacon’s characters. The big final revelation (wait, I’m wrong, I think there are at least two more revelations afterwards, it’s hard to keep up) that Lombardo and Detective Duquette are in fact in cahoots is easily the least credible of all the twists; unless, heaven forbid, the two of them might be into one another as well. Let’s face it, as soon as Dillon opens the shower door to be confronted with Bacon’s bacon (I know, I’m not the first and won’t be the last to make that joke), surely the first thing that crosses every viewer’s mind is that they must be lovers, particularly given that bisexuality and polyamory are central themes in the movie. That Wild Things stops short of showing this clearly indicates prejudices that still endure in popular culture: everyone likes a bit of girl-on-girl, but it’s no-way-José when it comes to guy-on-guy. Sad to say, I’m not sure things would be any different if they made the film today, even with the unflinching portrayal of gay sex on TV in the likes of True Blood and Game of Thrones. Let’s not forget, Brokeback Mountain might have got Ang Lee his first Oscar, but they wouldn’t let it have Best Picture. Not that Wild Things ever stood too great a chance of that particular accolade either, sad to say…
(Yes, I told you there’d be man-ass. If this bothers you, be aware that I could just as easily have posted a screenshot of Kevin Bacon’s cock from a few seconds later.)
So, was Wild Things the end of an era for the Hollywood sex film? Perhaps; perhaps not. Its overriding tone of unrepentant horniness may not be so prevalent in recent years, but its comparative under-emphasis on actual sex scenes and nudity might be seen as a precursor to the contemporary climate in which overtly sexual roles are frequently taken by actresses who refuse to appear naked on film (e.g. Jessica Alba in Sin City, Lindsay Lohan in I Know Who Killed Me). We should probably also note that Wild Things inspired a couple of direct-to-DVD sequels; while I haven’t seen these and have no plans to, their very existence underlines how much more comfortable the studios are with relegating smuttier material to the less discerning, less prestigious home market. Given this climate, I can’t deny a begrudging curiosity in how things progress with the Fifty Shades of Grey movie: if, as the rumour mill suggests, Universal succeed in luring a hitherto respectable cast and director for the inevitably dirty movie, and they do indeed make it as unflinchingly kinky as planned, the ramifications are interesting for mainstream sex films in the years ahead. But regardless of whether we see the return of shameless voyeurism and unapologetic sexploitation in big budget films, let us be thankful for films like Wild Things, and remind ourselves that we needn’t always be so shy about admitting what turns us on that we have to gloss over it with excessive irony. After all, as someone far more learned than myself once said, you can’t have an ironic wank.