In Wild Things, John McNaughton’s gloriously underrated 1998 thriller, Florida has never felt seedier. The idyllic, upscale Miami suburb of Blue Bay is rocked when high school guidance counsellor Sam Lombardo (Matt Dillon) is accused of rape by two of his students: the wealthy teen socialite Kelly Van Ryan (Denise Richards) and the poorer, more socially outcast Suzie Toller (Neve Campbell).
On the stand at the much-publicised trial, however, the girls quickly break under cross-examination and reveal that the allegations were falsely concocted to exact revenge on Sam for a series of perceived wrongdoings. When the beleaguered teacher is awarded an $8.5m defamation payout, police sergeant Ray Duquette (Kevin Bacon) suspects that something is amiss and, against the orders of his superiors, sets out to uncover whether or not the trio were colluding from the start.
On its surface, the film’s plot seems ripped straight from the kind of pulpy paperbacks found on stands in airport bookstores, with enough sex and violence to stir one’s imagination until boarding has commenced. Viewers will recognise its narrative beats from film noir: intricate schemes, two-faced characters and a detective determined to get to the bottom of things. But much like the genre it’s paying homage to, the film’s deeper aspirations are hidden well beneath its sunkissed images – a lush Floridian landscape and a dreamy, banjo-tinged jazz score operating as the perfect facade for the residents of Blue Bay to mask their cold-blooded desires.
While Dillon and Bacon are great in their roles – former teen heartthrobs ingeniously cast as two of American cinema’s most prominent paradigms: the sex pest and the cop – Wild Things belongs wholly to its two female stars, who elevate it beyond simple bargain-bin titillation to lurid melodramatic trash. Fresh off the success of Scream, Campbell’s mischievous turn as Suzie immediately subverts expectations of the good-girl image she had cultivated. Richards’ performance generates an almost inverse effect, every perfectly composed shot of the star’s angelic features enchanting the viewer just like the men in the film who enter Kelly’s orbit.
In a film where much of the power ultimately ends with the women, it makes sense then that McNaughton believes that Wild Things is his most political work. Other than its biting observations on gender, the film sharply exposes the class differences deeply ingrained within the Blue Bay community. Already viewed as an outsider thanks to his working-class occupation, one of the first repercussions of Sam’s rape accusations is his ousting from the local country club, a bustling watering hole for the Blue Bay elite. Yet when he is found innocent he just as quickly reinserts himself back into this life. “I’m doing what rich guys do,” he reassures himself as he withdraws funds from the bank. “I’m spending my money.”
At the same time, the cops don’t get off easily and are portrayed as clumsy and incompetent. Ray’s personal grudge against Sam overrides his better judgment when he resorts to trespassing on the Van Ryan property, hoping to trick the teenage girls into confessing. His partner, Detective Perez, is the only individual in the film who displays some semblance of a moral code. But by the time credits roll, the rot has festered – it’s far too late to fix things now.
Beyond all the carnal sex and tantalising violence, Wild Things is, at its core, an intelligently crafted takedown on the way greed hides itself behind slick, surface-level beauty; one that critics were all too quick to dismiss upon its original release. “People aren’t always what they appear to be,” Ray tells a junior officer. “Don’t forget that.” In a film full of lies, never has a statement rung so true.
Wild Things is streaming on Netflix. For more recommendations of what to stream in Australia, click here
