In the pantheon of Erotic Thrillers, Body of Evidence is an odd one. It falls into the even more niche sub-category of courtroom thrillers, which spend as much time on the naughty bits as they do with witnesses on the stand or in depositions (see also: Disclosure).
Enter Body of Evidence. In the film, femme fatale Rebecca Carlson (Madonna) is arrested and charged with murder when her older, wealthy boyfriend John Marsh (Michael Forest) is found dead. Turns out the pair had quite the risqué sex life (or at least as risqué as mainstream Hollywood fare was willing to address in 1993): they were having non-missionary sex that involved some light bondage (ie: restraints such as belts and handcuffs).
District Attorney Robert Garrett (Joe Mantegna) makes it clear to the jury in his opening remarks that Rebecca’s body is the murder weapon. She induced Marsh’s fatal heart attack from a lethal combination of cocaine (hidden in his medical spray) and rigorous sex, all so that she could inherit $8M in his will.
The state’s case is bogus and Rebecca’s lawyer, Frank Dulaney (Willem Dafoe), rightfully argues as such. In some ways, this is screenwriter Brad Mirman making the same concession to audiences: the premise is far-fetched, even ludicrous, but just go along with it. Admittedly it is one of the most far-fetched premises of the subgenre I’ve seen to date.
It’s no less ridiculous than the plot of many film noirs, however, which – as we’ve discussed before in this series – is essential to the Erotic Thriller trend of the 80s and 90s. Madonna is clearly playing both female archetypes: the falsely accused victim (the virgin) and the sinful temptress who leads men to their doom (the whore), the latter of which was very much in keeping with her public persona at the time.
As Karina Longworth discusses in episode ten of You Must Remember This’ Erotic 90s series, Body of Evidence was considered a perfect star vehicle for Madonna. Just two months earlier in October 1992, the queen of pop had concurrently released two sexually explicit texts: her latest album Erotica and Sex, her provocative limited-run book. In both, the superstar makes the argument for normalizing sex, even as she pushes the boundaries of what is considered normal and/or deviant.
It’s hardly surprising that critics at the time had difficulty separating Madonna from her character Rebecca, although is it unfair to blame the film’s failures on its lead actress. While Body of Evidence’s blonde vamp isn’t as interesting or complicated as, say, Basic Instinct’s Catherine Trammell, Rebecca is clearly the most compelling aspect of the film. The problem with Body Evidence isn’t that Madonna is playing herself (she’s not), it’s that the film resolutely refuses to deviate away from the conventions of a traditional film noir without acknowledging how norms of sex and sexuality have become more progressive, or complicated, over the course of 40 to 50 years.
In many ways, Body of Evidence’s failure is in its fairly pedestrian (read: vanilla) approach to sex. In fact, there’s something incredibly compelling about how the film shows Rebecca indoctrinating men into her “lifestyle,” vis a vis the character of Frank. Unfortunately the film frequently treats this aspect as dangerous, which, especially through a contemporary lens, comes off as moralistic and slightly preachy.
At a clandestine dinner, the married lawyer asks his client how she identified Marsh as a prospective romantic partner. This is pertinent to the plot because the DA’s case rests of the idea that Rebecca is a gold-digger: she seeks out rich elderly men with bad hearts, like Marsh and her former lover Jeffrey Roston (Frank Langella), with the goal of getting into their will and then fucking them to death.
Rebecca’s answer to Frank’s prompt is that she can simply tell, and when he asks her to identify someone in the restaurant, her gaze eventually settles on him. Naturally, as in many film noirs, Frank is too much of a rube to deduce that he’s the mark, but (like most things in the film) it’s extremely evident to the audience.
That night, as Frank stares longingly at Rebecca while she lounges on her houseboat (even her choice of abode is strange and deviant!), she lures him aboard like a siren. Rebecca emerges from the shadows like a spider, wrapping Frank in an embrace from behind before he quite literally rips off her clothes. She then ties his arms behind his back with his belt before pouring hot wax over his chest and genitals.
This is all meant to be sexy, but it’s not, mainly due to director Uli Edel’s uninspired, flat direction (full credit, however, to production designer Victoria Paul for dressing the enormous set with flowing black silk curtains like something out of a porno or a perfume commercial).
Later, in the film’s most provocative and (successful) erotic scene, Rebecca has sex with Frank on the hood of a car littered with broken glass. When they finish, the back of his shirt is covered with blood stains from where he has been cut; this is the evidence of the cost that men will pay – with their literal bodies! – to pursue this vamp. It’s a great scene: sexy, risqué and more than a little daring; it’s easily the most memorable aspect of the entire film.
The back half of the film is less interesting, if only because it relies too heavily on lackluster reveals, such as Marsh’s longtime assistant Joanne Braslow (Fatal Attraction’s Anne Archer) having a coke addiction and Marsh’s doctor, Alan Paley (Jürgen Prochnow) hiding a sexual obsession with Rebecca.
The red herrings are clearly meant to disguise the film’s big twist, which is that Rebecca is every bit the villainous femme fatale the DA made her out to be. In a thoroughly uninspired move, the film punishes its deviant murderess with a watery death and a pat resolution wherein Frank goes back to his forgiving restauranteur wife Sharon (a painfully underutilized Julianne Moore). Madonna famously didn’t agree with the ending, which clearly passes judgement on its jezebel before reinstating normalcy and the status quo (back to missionary sex, I guess!). The most intriguing aspect of the ending is costume designer Susan Becker‘s decision to balk conventional costume colour coding and dress Rebecca in an all-white pyjama set for her big death scene.
The result is that Body of Evidence winds up feeling trapped in the past. Aside from its acrobatic parking garage sex scene, Edel’s film feels stale and antiquated, especially when it is compared to Basic Instinct, a film that only a year earlier famously refused to imprison or kill its sexually adventurous villain and even dared to suggest that she was going to kill the film’s protagonist.
To be clear: Body of Evidence isn’t good. It’s too slow and its courtroom theatrics feel out of step with the evolution of Rebecca and Frank’s relationship. But it’s certainly not the trash fire that critics and the lackluster box office would have you believe.
If nothing else, the film is something of a curiousity, particularly for audiences who are interested in witnessing just how a film can so badly misuse a superstar like Madonna. A better bet would be to check out 1990’s Dick Tracy, which features the material girl in a nearly identical role that, despite featuring a similar fate, is much more nuanced and successful.
Sex Crimes is a column that explores the legacy of erotic thrillers.
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