- Original theatrical poster - Image courtesy of Classic Horror
Having seen my fair share of terrible movies, it’s only natural for me to empathize with someone bemoaning the saturation of awful sequels, remakes, and other sorts of event movies in our multiplexes on a pretty much weekly basis. It doesn't take a half wit to notice that the business side of movies results in a lot of terrible products.
But, only a mental zombie would express a belief in the uniform awfulness of those particular kinds of films, which is also an adherence to some of the most superficial means of classification. The content of a movie (say, a rehash) or the reasons for its existence (say, money, and how much of it) aren’t on some absolute frequency of qualitative determination, and it’s pitiful that this need be pointed out to some who consider themselves cineastes. (Similarly shortsighted were people I knew growing up who would listen to music on the sole basis of whether if it was, or was not, played on MTV, and I held them all in lower opinion for it.)
Case in point: the original film version of The Fly is outshone by the 1986 redo, and then some. It can’t even hold a candle to it, as few horror films can. Imagine a bloody, sometimes revolting, utterly terrifying splatter fest with actual emotional staying power and the kind of depth and profundity as to suggest Shakespeare (those who’ve seen it know I’m not just using hyperbole), complete with just enough tenderness and humor throughout to make the resulting downfall that much more bitterly tragic. It kicks you in the gut and it hurts for days after the fact.
Amongst cinema, Cronenberg’s romantic masterpiece is one of the greatest, horror or otherwise, and anyone who rags on it simply because it isn’t the original incarnation of a particular name and premise is displaying stupidity of nearly equally tragic proportions. The original is still very good on its own terms, and to defend one movie on the basis of needing to deface another is to actively diminish the worth of both.
This iconic classic from the sci-fi tsunami that was 1958 is among the more narratively audacious films of the time, adapted from George Langelaan’s story of the same name and unfolding mostly in flashback after the bloody, squishy climax of it all disturbingly opens the film. Audiences then and now were and are probably too in on the story to even pretend to be in the dark on what’s actually happening for the first half or so, but being in on the nature of things adds a not-unsatisfying level of tension to these proceedings, not the least of which is an increased sense of fated doom. If you've not seen either film and are lucky enough to not know what I'm beating around the bush about, stop reading now and go rent the remake, or both.
The film opens with a late night crime scene, in which an emotionally disjointed woman, Helene (Patricia Owens) has just aided with the death of her husband Andre (David Hedison), his head and one of his arms flattened in a hydraulic press. The shattered, now-widowed suspect won’t say a word on the matter, leaving police clueless about her motive, and whenever a fly enters her vicinity, she freaks out to a considerable degree. Eventually, though, she opens up, detailing her husband’s scientific experiments and his most recent, and final, success: a particular transporter capable of moving physical objects through space. And two plus two equals…
Unlike the parallels to diseases and mortality made so potent by the aforementioned remake, the premise of the original version amounts to little more than a manifestation of scientific progress unchained and the hubris of one who touches creation, which is to say it proves more than high-minded enough for a sense of genuine tragedy and loss to set in.
The long-awaited money shot – the reveal of Andre’s head, now switched with that of a housefly – manages to be horrifying without feeling exploitative (the memorable closing image, however, can't help but seem at least a bit silly). The script works hard to ensure that the premise delivers without succumbing to its surface absurdity, and when the man within the fly struggles to scrawl a final message of affection on a chalkboard, it's a potent as anything in high drama.
An overriding emphasis on characters and their relationships – more so than the special effects and impressive makeup work – is what makes this film so effective , rendering it as something of a bedrock of the genre. Two sequels to this original, Return of the Fly and Curse of the Fly, ensured a moneymaker for plenty of time to come, and while it might cower in the shadow of its ancestor, that great film likely wouldn’t be here without this one’s shoulders to stand on. It’s probably only a matter of time until we’re treated to another reboot, or the like. In the meantime, try to treat yourself to a performance of The Fly: The Opera, playing in Los Angeles. That's right: the ’86 version was good enough to warrant a freaking opera.
The Fly. Dir. Kurt Neumann. Perf. Patricia Owens, Vincent Price, Herbert Marshall, Kathleen Freeman, Betty Lou Gerson, Charles Herbert. 20th Century Fox, 1958. Running Time: 94 min. 4 out of 5 stars (no halves).
The Fly. Dir. David Cronenberg. Perf. Jeff Goldblum, Geena Davis, John Getz. 20th Century Fox, 1986. Running Time: 95 min. 5 out of 5 stars (no halves).
