Watched Basic Instinct (R calls it Budget Instinct but still ogles it with me) again last night. I get this peculiar occasional thirst for it even though I consider it both baffling and theoretically repugnant. Subjecting oneself to BI for the hundredth fucking time is like eating all three remaining pieces of monster lemon cheesecake, even though you already have the sugar shakes and they would have fit comfortably in the fridge as you well know. Or going back for that last spot on the hot knives when you're dicing with laughter incontinence and are only semi-aware of the thumbtack buried in your right foot. It's not good. But you keep doing it.
What is a world without Shazza's glassy pissholes in the snow as she toys so mercilessly with her inferiors? Her titivated funbags in that backless gold lamé?
What is Basic Instinct, after all this time? Is it precisely what it superficially seems i.e. a greasy pool of Michael Douglas-scented garbage water, or some sort of slinky postmodern pro-lesbian cleverness artefact? I'll use the moist towelette of historical context to clear my vision.
Eszterhas doubled down on his dodgy femmeschlock via Sliver and then went full retard with that masterful testament Showgirls. He also penned fucking Flashdance, so it's safe to say he's had undue influence upon the contemporary limited intellect if nothing else. I think it boils down to whether this is the best he could actually do, or if he was just dribbling wees on our leg and calling it Scotch mist.
Roxy bites the big one trying to mow down her rival which is highly implausible given that she's butch and therefore practically born to drive at speed. Bicurious Beth is made to apologise for any historic muffdiving before it threatens her access to the correctly male object of her real obsession, and she has the fucking nerve to pout after he actually grants her the heavenly 20 seconds of nonconsensual dicking she so clearly needed. Ungrateful bitch. Then Catherine goes and breaks my heart by consoling herself with drunk midlife policeman cock and spray-tanned turkey wattles as dangled by Michael soupy retch Douglas like shaved balls on a sticky afternoon. All while Roxy is still wiping body fluids off her Cuban heels in that shadowy afterlife reserved for the most presumptuous of lesbians.
I went to see BI at the cinema when it was released and remember all the public outrage attending it, some of which turned pretty fucking real in the uni bars on friday nights after warring Womens Studies factions got into the $3 rum and cokes. Lady-loving ladies have many valid points about being coopted by hostile forces. However, I'm bi- the worst sexual, found the straight characters more objectionable than the queer ones and the rest of it too wretchedly stupid to warrant most of that hot fuss. Is that my trifling ambidextrous hoo-ha talking or have I just been bewitched by Verhoeven's stupid, slutty, caramel-tinted vision?
In researching the flick I discovered two related factoids. A: Sharon Stone supposedly never gave permission to be upskirted in lieu of panties during the interrogation scene, and B: claims she would have kept it in the movie, had she been the director. Which... confuses me. Not that I understand the tittering around that infamous alleged reveal anyway since the male hysterics insisting on its flagrance are clearly (and unsurprisingly) confused in regard to feminine anatomy. These days you're subjected to more unsolicited pudenda whilst minding your own business on the bus into town, whether you bloody like it or not.
"You didn't feel anything for him, you just had sex with him for your book?"
Ha ha ha! Next question.