One Paragraph Movie Review: Fatal Attraction

One hundred and forty-third film: Fatal Attraction. This is one of the world’s most uncomfortable movies, not least because nobody really asks to see Michael Douglas’s nipples. On the one hand, people who cheat on their partners are pretty much volunteering to deal with the consequences, but on the other hand those consequences should not necessarily include off-menu rabbit casserole. Glenn Close’s melodramatic performance heightens the tension perfectly, but raises some iffy 1987-style questions about the portrayal of women, driven to apparently hysterical violence as she is by an imminently doughy lawyer. Also for the record, sex scenes set on a kitchen sink that involve turning on the taps at the height of passion are very stupid. Actually come to think of it, that scene plus the much later bath-filling scene combine to represent a shocking waste of water. We’re in a drought, 1987, do better. Still. Questionable portrayals and excess notwithstanding, everybody loves watching a movie villain swing completely off their hinges, let’s be honest. Four fizzing acid cars out of five.