The Fly (dir. David Cronenberg, 1986)
The Fly: you know it, you love it, you’ve seen the Treehouse of Horror parody. It’s one of David Cronenberg’s more notable films and much superior, I think, to the 1958 version starring Vincent Price. The Fly follows scientist Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum), who has invented a teleportation device. In the process of proving that living matter can be disintegrated and reassembled, Brundle accidently fuses the DNA of a common housefly with his own, and the rest of the film tracks his mutation into a monstrous hybrid creature.
Acting in the dictionary definition sense of taking on a persona unlike yourself for the entertainment or edification of an audience is all well and good, but there’s something to be said for not acting, too. Why bother with all that effort that Daniel Day-Lewis puts himself through when you can simply be yourself? Find roles that fit you rather than fit yourself into them.
This is the key to Jeff Goldblum’s continued success over the decades. You won’t find him playing anything but an eccentric man with distinct vocal tics and a talent for jazz piano. And that’s fine, because what more could you want out of a performer?
That’s what makes Goldblum’s performance as Seth Brundle in The Fly so effective. We see how that effortless and disarming charm turns rotten. As much as the film is about a teleportation accident, it’s also both the relationship between Brundle and Veronica Quaife, a reporter played by Geena Davis. Their initial meeting and his first demonstration of the teleporter are one-hundred percent meant as a pick-up routine by Brundle, and his decision to test the machine himself after successfully teleporting a baboon is a drunken decision made after Veronica leaves to talk with her editor (and ex) Stathis Borans (John Getz) and suspects infidelity after what is really just a casual encounter at this point. Brundle’s increasing aggressive is due only in part to the effect that the fly DNA has on him: it’s as much sexual jealousy and that old bugbear toxic masculinity having their usual effect–albeit with more compound fractures and acidic spit.
It’s an interesting contrast to one of Cronenberg’s previous films, The Brood. That film reads now like a men’s rights manifesto penned after an acrimonious divorce. Which is essentially what it was. It seems that Cronenberg might have realized a few things about himself in the years between the two films, so good for him.
October 30, 2018
oliveresque 