Directed by John McNaughton. Written by Stephen Peters
The 90s saw both the wax and wane of the erotic thriller as a distinct genre, and arriving in 1998, Wild Things goes too far, as director John McNaughton swaps sexy winks for leers in a movie where the performances are more at home in porn, and Stephen Peters’ script dumbs down (and then doubles and triples down on) the genre’s love for a good twist.
McNaughton owes a lot to his colleagues working below the line, as the production quality of John McNaughton’s movie can’t be faulted, but it’s also proof that not even a high tide can raise all boats when many of those boats take on water.
Bobbing in the cinematic swamp scum is Matt Dillon as high school guidance counselor Sam Lombardo who’s having a hard time keeping one of his students at arm’s length. The girl, Kelly, played by Denise Richards, is laughably forward in her approach, throwing herself at Sam like a linebacker. Despite the red flag parade that is Kelly’s courtship, Sam doesn’t seem all that bothered and merely shrugs it off.
One morning though, in a tear-stained confession to her dragon lady mother, Kelly says Sam raped her, and when a fellow classmate steps forward to make a strikingly similar accusation, Sam looks guilty as sin. But is everything what it appears to be?
Peters’ script takes an intense delight in its plot twists, piling them on with abandon even as the novelty wears off. It gets stale fast, and that’s because Wild Things doesn’t carry itself like the frenetic headturner its script suggests. It opens with shots of alligators lying in wait, and taking its cue from this poised danger it moves with the energy of a predator’s slow but deliberate prowl.
George S. Clinton’s score features titillating percussion, a twangy guitar evoking a suggestively raised eyebrow, and a lewd saxophone that sounds at home on a street corner. Unfortunately, McNaughton’s direction is anything but sly, as his rushed pacing stumbles over itself trying to build his teetering tower of narrative rug pulls. It just doesn’t jive.
If you’re making an erotic thriller it also better be erotic, and what that word means probably changes depending on who you ask. McNaughton seems to think it means trashy. He has a frat boy’s sense for what’s sexy, and Wild Things’ steamy sequences feel siphoned from a teenage boy’s dizzy daydreams. He also gets lost in Denise Richards’ bombshell physique and films her with a similar energy to cartoon characters wolf-whistling and going awooga while their eyes jump out their skull. She has champagne poured over her body, is rarely afforded anything but a bikini top or bra to wear, and in one shot you can almost sense someone wresting control of the lens from McNaughton, as it reluctantly moves on from Richards’ cleavage. In short: McNaughton directs Wild Things with one hand.
It’s clear that McNaughton only has eyes for you if you’re a pair of breasts, and performances across the movie make that clear. Matt Dillon’s uninvested acting doesn’t exactly inspire you to care, and the twisty nature of the story means most of its characters become mercurial and without a backbone to tie their character too, they too become vapid acquaintances you struggle to summon an interest for.
With a cast that also includes Kevin Bacon and Neve Campbell, it’s surprising how few cover themselves in glory. You’d be tempted to point to McNaughton as the common denominator, and you might still be right, but Bill Murray, who shines as an unscrupulous lawyer, proves that some accountability still lies with Dillon, Bacon, Richards and Campbell.
Wild Things is a poor example of a great genre, or perhaps just poorly executed. It has the ingredients, so it’s more a great showcase for how necessary sophistication is when dealing with hot impulses, be they sex, murder, or criminal conspiracy. It can be salacious without being sleazy, it can be surprising without being opaque. Be it twists or tits, they can’t just be there for their own sake, and McNaughton doesn’t understand that. Wild Things can be enjoyable or entertaining, but only as guilty pleasure, and any suggestion it’s good must be followed by an immediate admission that it’s in an ironic kind of way, which is a mindset that deserves derision.
Mikkel Frederiksen 