Nick, a troubled policeman (Michael Douglas), becomes the mental and physical plaything of rich, educated, bisexual partier, Catherine Tramell (Sharon Stone), a suspect in an ice pick murder. His simple partner (George Dzundza) and ex-lover, psychologist Dr. Beth Garner (Jeanne Tripplehorn), try to help him, but he falls deeper and deeper into addiction and Catherine’s plots. But there are a lot of secrets being kept, and Catherine isn’t the only one connected to murders.
A direct descendant of Body Heat and Hitchcock’s Virtigo, Basic Instinct has the dubious honor of giving birth to hundreds of cut-rate, direct-to-video, sexual thrillers. But you can’t blame a parent for its children. And this is one hell of a hot parent.
The structure is that of a murder mystery, but this isn’t a mystery. It doesn’t matter who the killer is. In most Noirs, there is no question of who killed whom. The point is to get to know these people. It’s clear from the beginning that Catherine Tramell is capable of murder; the only question is: did she happen to do it this time? That’s not an interesting question.
So, like the Noirs of old, this is a character study. We get to spend two hours with the ultimate icon of everything that is worshipful and frightening in women, along with an average broken man, and a collection of everyday people with their sniveling problems and narrow insights. Yes, this is the Catherine Tramell Show and what a great show it is. She is the ultimate femme fatale. Sexy, powerful, manipulative, beautiful, artistic, and smarter than everyone around her, she is every man’s greatest fantasy, but one that most of us hope stays far away from real life. Let’s face it guys, we’re no match for her.
Basic Instinct opened to ill-conceived protests from feminists and homosexual rights groups who missed the point: Catherine Tramell is not the villain; she’s the hero. Nothing in this movie slams women or lesbians/bisexuals. But the groups yelled because Catherine isn’t a PC, gentle, business woman. No she isn’t. She’s better. Remember the old Helen Ready song: “I am woman, hear me roar.” Well, here she is. I suggest trembling.
Of course the sex is exciting, and the nudity is captivating, and none of it is gratuitous. This is a film about power and passion, and Catherine uses everything she’s got. Besides her body, she uses language, and many of the best scenes consist of her talking to Nick. It is old-school Noir dialog, which means witty and meaningful, and Sharon Stone’s playful delivery nudges it over into “classic” range along side Philip Marlowe & Vivian Rutledge’s in The Big Sleep and Waldo Lydecker’s in Laura. That’s lofty company. In fact, Stone’s portrayal is across-the-board perfect. Her career since ’92 has been less than impressive, but here, steely, erotic, and imperious, no one could have been better.
Director Paul Verhoeven brings a look to the film which is more Hitchcockian than Hitchcock. Because his subject matter is often drenched with sex and violence, and due to the miscalculation of Show Girls, his skill is often ignored. But Verhoeven is a master of setting and camera movement, and is likely the most underrated director working. Here, a sweeping, overhead shot of San Francisco does more in two seconds to set the mood than other directors can do in two hours. The famed police interrogation, where Catherine defeats a room full of men by simply uncrossing and crossing her legs, is one of the great scenes in modern cinema. Verhoeven takes us into the room, lets us see every emotion and every bead of sweat. He pulls in, letting Catherine overwhelm with a glance, and then slides out again, making us feel like we are one of the policemen and are as helpless as they.
If only every moment could be spent with Catherine. But the story follows Nick, and whenever he is without her, the film pales. Michael Douglas is a reasonable choice for the weak, disturbed cop, but there is no way for him to make the part sing. Whenever he is investigating or arguing with other officers, I found myself uninvolved, just waiting for him to meet up again with Catherine. Jeanne Tripplehorn injects some slightly twisted energy, but without Catherine, the movie is just biding its time. Luckily, she’s never gone long.
With all the murders, unexplained characters, and unanswered questions, Basic Instinct keeps the viewer off balance. It is never clear who has done what, and why. Which leads to the one miscalculation. In the final seconds of the picture, we’re fed what is supposedly all the answers. Actually, what we are shown answers very little, but there’s no question that the filmmakers wanted us to think that it covers everything. This is a case when less is more. There was no reason to mess with a beautifully ambiguous ending. I prefer to ignore Verhoeven and company’s intentions, and go with what they shot instead of what they meant, which lets me bask in the uncertainty.
Verhoeven also directed the brilliant and undervalued Flesh & Blood (1985), the satiric bloodbath, RoboCop (1987), the cyberpunk action-fest, Total Recall (1990), the wry, anti-fascist Starship Troopers (1997), and the disappointing Hollow Man (2000).