Whenever horror season rolls around, I think about David Cronenberg’s The Fly. It turned 35 years old this year, yet holds up so well despite being a film from decades ago. The reason why I like it so much is because of the normalcy that inundates the film. The first 45 minutes practically functions like the plot of a regular love story; there’s even an obstacle in the form of Veronica’s (Geena Davis) ex-boyfriend Stathis (John Getz). Guy meets girl at a bar, he takes her back to his place to show off, there’s attraction and chemistry, one thing leads to another, and they become romantically involved.
Unlike Frankenstein, who was a bit mad when it came to his experiments, Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum) is a relatively normal guy. Yeah, he’s a bit eccentric, but he’s funny and very likeable. It helps that he’s portrayed by Goldblum, who has charisma by the truckloads, and it’s easy to see why Davis’ Veronica falls for the guy. Then things go south.
Seth, drunk and on a whim, goes into the telepod one night himself to test it out. Unknown to him, a fly is along for the ride, and instead of simple teleportation, the two are fused with each other.
The symbolism of the fly, being tied to disease, decay and death, makes the metaphor simple and straightforward (there is also the discussion of The Fly as an allegory for AIDS). The changes start out small, an insatiable need for sugar, boundless strength and energy, before the body horror elements start to take hold – it speaks to Cronenberg’s skill that he can make sugar feel so scary. But the more disturbing fact is the change in Seth’s character. The most sweet and adorable man (Ronnie even mentions how pinchable he is) doesn’t even flinch when he breaks a guy’s wrist, and gets irrationally angry when Ronnie refuses to go through the telepod like he did. He even sleeps with a random woman he meets so that he can convince her to try the telepod.
The most painful thing is Ronnie bears witness to all these changes, the metamorphosis that has taken hold of his body and even his soul. The contrast between Seth’s lithe and healthy body and his diseased, pustuled form later on evokes such pathos – the horror feels personal and relatable. Disease transforms our bodies and to some extent even who we are. We feel anger and revulsion at the changes that have happened to us, and possess this desire to chase our loved ones away, because we don’t want them to look at us with pity. Before, Ronnie gazed at Seth in admiration – at his good looks and athletic form – and now that’s all but disappeared.
She still loves him, but what can she do? Ronnie moves from a state of absolute horror and shock (I would be in shock too if the man I loved vomited over his food before ingesting it), to feeling so emotionally drained. Her instinct is to comfort and help him, yet at the same time, it is such an overwhelming thing to deal with. Seth tries to cope in the only way he knows how, by treating the entire thing like an experiment. At this point he doesn’t even bear resemblance to the man he was before – the disease has overcome his entire body, and while he does possess some measure of his former wit, he is more creature than human as he crawls over the ceiling and walls.
Ronnie discovering she’s pregnant with Seth’s baby would usually mean happy news, since he’s the man she loves, though at present a shadow of his former self. However, her immediate worry becomes about the health and nature of the baby. Will it have fly DNA too? Will the disease that has overcome Seth also claim the baby? The horror escalates as we are taken into Ronnie’s dream sequence of an abortion gone wrong, where we are privy to her nightmares. Cronenberg’s choice to have an extended focus on her agonised screams and the looks of horror from the doctors that surround her creates such trepidation for the viewer, as we are forced to conjure in our minds what could have possibly emerged, only to be acquainted with the actual image a few beats later.
Ronnie has no one to turn to for emotional support; Seth is no longer available to her in the way he was before, and while Stathis is there for her, it just isn’t the same thing. When she visits Seth hoping to gain some clarity on what to do about the baby, she is instead greeted by a Seth who is more insect than man. His humanity is lost, all that exists are “remnants of a bygone era”. Seth attempts to preserve these parts of himself, by keeping his fallen body parts in the medicine cabinet, however, just like artefacts in a museum, Seth is acutely aware that this is his past. His future is what lies at the end of his transformation.
Yet, there is a desperation to regain that humanity, and so when he finds out about Ronnie and the baby, he conceives of an idea so abject – the three of them fusing into one form. This is definitely an allusion to the holy trinity, only the ensuing result here is more grotesque than divine. We are dumbfounded at this point – how could Seth do this to Ronnie and their unborn child? Seth, as a man of Science, has ironically gone past the point of rationality – the irrational steers him as he tries to outrun his monstrous fate.
Despite the body horror elements and the disturbing imagery, the most memorable aspect of The Fly is how human it is as an exploration of ambition, the folly of jealousy, the ugliness of disease, and the enduring nature of love. Stathis, in spite of his extensive injuries, finds the strength to rescue Ronnie. Ronnie cannot bring herself to kill Seth, even after all he put her through, for he is still the man she loves, and she only pulls the trigger when it becomes clear that it is something he wants.
As what remains of Seth falls to the ground, dead and gone, the tragedy of the moment strikes us, as we remember the man he was before, and mourn the loss of Seth Brundle.
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