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Madonna isn't merely the prime suspect in the scandalous murder of a millionaire with kinky appetites; she's the murder weapon itself in this erotic thriller in the
Basic Instinct mode. The art gallery owner by day and icy-blond dominatrix by night is accused of, shall we say, "loving" her victim to death, and Willem Dafoe is the happily married lawyer she lures into the dark thrills of pleasure and pain. The actual mystery is perfunctory at best and the absurd courtroom theatrics a mere formality in a film far more fascinated with sweaty sex, hot wax, and broken glass. Madonna isn't shy about her body and seems to enjoy the games her character plays, but she's no Sharon Stone; there's no danger smoldering behind her seduction. Like her notorious book
Sex, this is a handsomely shot work of pure exhibitionism.
--Sean Axmaker
From The New Yorker
Madonna plays a woman on trial for deliberately inducing a fatal coronary in her wealthy older lover by means of overstrenuous sadomasochistic sex. Aside from morons, the only viewers likely to be thrilled by this star vehicle are her academic fans: they gaze avidly, deconstructing her with their eyes. For them, the turn-on might be the question: In the light of Sharon Stone's brilliant appropriation of Madonna's persona in "Basic Instinct," is Madonna still the author of Madonna? To the layman, the answer to that one is obvious. Stone's "Madonna" is so much wittier and sexier than its model that it obliterates the original: it turns the "real" Madonna into an immaterial girl. Madonna-the hardest-working sex symbol in the history of show business-tries with her customary dogged application to reclaim her creation, but it's no use. She seems to be taking herself too seriously, and her erotic audacity lacks even the illusion of playfulness. Her performance feels strained and heavy-spirited; watching it is like watching Joan Crawford tap-dance. Also with Willem Dafoe, Anne Archer, Joe Mantegna, and Julianne Moore. The ridiculous screenplay is credited to Brad Mirman; the sluggish direction is by Uli Edel. -Terrence Rafferty
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker