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Versione 1
Rating: In fact, there is very little to say about this film.
Except that Basinger is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous to the nth degree.
In the golden photosynthesis, practically a semi-Deity of Love and Beauty. Fresh and coupled by the foam of the seas and the impulse of the Winds.
The Goddess throughout the film is tremulous and fleshy and quietly stands atop the vulva of a shell, mad and perfect like a Pearl.
Mickey Rourke, on the other hand, has an indecent and mono-expressive gait as usual, and his performance is still unripe and on par with his native Puerto Rican slums.
His luciferian performances of Angel Heart and especially The Wrestler are still far off, which will raise him from a mickey to the rank of a decent actor but only because he’s blessed by the touch of the sanctity of Their Satanic Majesties Request R. De Niro aka Louis Cyphre.
The plot is a mishmash of clichés of the Reaganite Bel Paese, of ultra-chic cottages in Manhattan, of iconic and endless walks near Coney Island (when do they hook up?), of pneumatic voids scattered throughout day and night amidst the sparse and elegant domestic walls.
Among conversations ricocheting ad infinitum without an exit. An escape from reality that, in the end, degenerates into lethal boredom, even without a couch and remote control, you think you're suspended from reality in the alcove of senses with a blonde angel, but no lost Paradise or Peroni, only fleeting illusions and lost souls. Like Rourke, the stupid broker who, with his inseparable Armani trench, not yet knowing how to twirl like a clumsy star, continuously hops and recoils to the ground, almost crawling like a snake. After all, the director was Adrian Lyne, the same director of Flashdance, to give an idea, the white fox who questions the 80's social standard with the mockery of all customs and the aesthetics of those years, with the fawning editing and MTV orientation, the soundtrack that sashays with class, and above all the aesthetic photography of Peter Bizou.
With the Big Apple becoming a holographic panorama and at night a fiery labyrinth filled with hideouts and underpasses flooded by waters, where John and Elisabeth, wrapped and dazzled by blades of light, end up hooking up like hedgehogs.
Their eyes meet for the first time in front of a bar counter; Elisabeth basically accidentally bumps right into John's chest, who, thanks to that contact, notices her. Rourke indeed has the mono-facial expression like the Cyclops character in X Men, and thanks to this contact, he notices her, otherwise they might not have even met, and perhaps it would have been better for everyone.
Of course, as happens even nowadays, back then we also had an infinity of radical chic with a narrow-minded view of reality, who of course took this Lyne's divertissement seriously to dive deep into psychological analyses and rectal and anal introspections on the supposed depth of the two underground lovers.
Much ado about nothing then, for a 90-minute music video with high aesthetic content, with soft lights and soft-core games, bodies smeared with cream and breasts crumpled by ice cubes, the most uninterested crooner of Bryan Ferry called upon by a token ohh how powerful these blessed unconscious forces in emotional relationships are and how destructive they can be, ohhh Elisabeth ohhh.
That then in the end if they had focused on a fine porn film, perhaps with Joe Dalessandro as an active/passive third wheel maybe it would have been even better.
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