One Paragraph Movie Review: The Fly

One hundred and fifty-fourth film: The Fly, the 1986 Jeff Goldblum version. This… well. This is a disgusting movie. Based loosely on the 1958 Vincent Price film in which a scientist accidentally fuses his own genetics with that of a fly, in the first third it merely hints at the disgusting to come. In the second third it becomes properly disgusting, and in its final third it shakes up a big bottle of fizzy disgusting and then pops the cap. It is rare, thankfully, that I say the words “now that is a LOT of vomit” out loud in my living room, but here we are, covered in acidic fly vomit. The cheesy 80s special effects feel like a complete mismatch to the high-end performances by Goldblum and Geena Davis, and the whole thing is distinctly uncomfortable and one of the brownest, wettest movies I’ve ever seen. Somehow though, it still makes its central love story seem touching and believable — no mean feat when the male romantic lead keeps his penis in a jar in the bathroom. Bloody great, but not a dinner time watch. Three stubborn back hairs out of five.