Lately, it seems as though directors are so entranced with the idea of making an “L.A. movie,” that they don’t bother too much with worrying about the plot, or even coming up with an original one. The most recent example of that is Guy Ritchie’s rather embarrassing, toxic masculinity-drenched Wrath of Man, an adaptation of a French movie repurposed to be set in the City of Angels. Unlike Ritchie, however, the director of Fatale, Deon Taylor presents the town in a far more glittering light (as opposed to the smog-plagued one Ritchie favors), while also doing something of his own unspoken Adrian Lyne remake.
Perhaps L.A.’s aesthetic allure in the movie is meant to be a mirror of the unavoidable (and very inexplicable) attraction the “protagonist,” Derrick Tyler (Michael Ealy), has toward Valerie Quinlan (Hilary Swank)—even though their initial encounter takes place against the backdrop of Las Vegas. A trip Derrick goes on with his friend and business partner, Rafe Grimes (Mike Colter), for a bachelor party. Before leaving his decadent castle in the hills of L.A. (complete with an infinity pool that provides one of many sumptuous money shots), however, there is a noticeable tenseness between him and his wife, Tracie (Damaris Lewis), who regards him coldly after a luxurious swim.
As their fight escalates upon him asking why she got home so late, he pleads, “I just want to spend time with my wife. I don’t need to go to Vegas. I’ll cancel the trip.” She replies coolly, “Just go to Vegas with your buddies, I don’t care.” Her callous response further incites Derrick to suspect that she’s been cheating on him, in addition to all her late nights out with “clients” from her supposed real estate closings. He confesses all of these worries to Rafe on the trip, who “helps” by telling him that, for the next twenty-four hours, he’s a bachelor—snatching his wedding ring for good measure. It is the absence of his ring, of course, that assists in endearing him to Valerie, who rebuffs the advances of another Black man (interesting… for what hold does this skinny, plastic surgery-pocked white lady have over the Black male gaze?) beside her at the bar in favor of hearing if the more mild-mannered Derrick can do better. Apparently, he can, and not much more flirtation is required for him to end up in her hotel room after she informs him, “I have a high-stress job in another city. So when I need to relieve the tension, I come to Vegas and let myself go a little insane.” It doesn’t take us long to find out that she’s more than just “a little” insane and it also happens to be all the time.
That “high-stress job,” naturally, will end up finding a way to intertwine with Derrick’s life back in Los Angeles, where he soon experiences a break-in at his home—and right after he’s made amends with his wife, too. Which just goes to show that the second you think your house is in order (pun intended), the universe tends to see fit to completely discombobulate it. Hence, Detective Valerie Quinlan entering “Darrin from Seattle’s” palatial palace to realize he is actually “Derrick from L.A.” A successful ex-basketball star who now owns half of a major management company specializing in sports players. Here’s where she goes all Glenn Close… well, not yet. Though she does give an early warning sign of her obsessive madness in the hotel room the morning after, locking Derrick’s phone in the safe and not letting him leave until he “fucks it out of her.”
Alex Forrest would surely approve. And speaking of, it has to be said that with a generic film title like Fatale, one supposes nothing less than a generic knockoff plot was to be expected. Why not just call it Fatale Attraction at that point, or even Femme Fatale like the Rebecca Romijn movie? But perhaps they genuinely thought they were being original… through the lens of “homage,” a word that’s been interpreted a bit too liberally of late (see: Olivia Rodrigo). A theory the filmmakers likely believed was corroborated by “lending depth” to Valerie’s character with an incongruous and ultimately hollow backstory about her ex-husband’s corrupt therefore unstoppable power within the city as it pertains to keeping her daughter away from her. Her daughter who suffered an accident at the hands of Valerie’s drunken carelessness. Ergo, the subsequent custody ousting and restraining order. But no, it’s still not enough to differentiate Fatale from any standard-issue filmic statement about cheating—the prototype of which is always, that’s right, Fatal Attraction.
The screenwriter of the movie, David Loughery, is himself well-versed in this tired, well-worn plotline originally immortalized by the aforementioned film. After all, he’s the one who brought us 2009’s Obsessed starring Idris Elba, Beyoncé and Ali Larter in the requisite tainted love triangle roles originally established by Lyne’s 1987 classic.
Alas, just as it was in the case of Obsessed, there seems to be a missed opportunity to address race with regard to the white woman involved. In both cases, each blanca seems so “cocksure” of her rights to do whatever she wants in terms of tampering with a Black couple’s lives for pure amusement, that absolutely no consequences are feared. If that’s not white privilege, then what is? And Derrick is, indeed, forced to play her gringa games for a while, especially as a result of her increased power stemming from constantly playing the cop card. Predictably, though, she’s stopped by Derrick due to something as old school and uninspired as a recorded confession.
And so, with a few people in his life now missing thanks to Val’s craziness (here, too, it bears noting that the trope of the “crazy white bitch” is way overused as much as the Fatal Attraction plotline that goes hand in hand with it), Derrick is allowed his freedom. The one he talks about getting back through some hackneyed “game playing” metaphor at the beginning of the movie when he’s driving through the infinity-like roads of the city. A final sweeping shot of the stunning Pacific Coast Highway as Derrick drives toward some kind of newfound liberty confirms that L.A., in the end, has been the entire crutch and justification for making this movie. For, if nothing else, it can be featured in a follow-up to Thom Andersen’s video essay, Los Angeles Plays Itself.
Two L.A. radio announcers (disembodied from the radio in Derrick’s car), Terrence J and Angie, weigh in on the subject, with the male announcer declaring, “Okay I’ve learned two things: 1) We’ve gotta stop making people guilty before they actually are.” “Amen,” his female co-host chimes in. “And 2) If you’re gonna cheat on your wife, make sure it’s not a cop.” Angie eye rollingly adds, “Just don’t cheat, boys.” Something we didn’t need an entire new movie to tell us when Fatal Attraction already provided that message loud and clear. Granted, without the stunning L.A. backdrops to move the cautionary tale along.
