David Cronenberg’s 1986 masterpiece, The Fly—a reimagining of the 1958 cult classic and George Langelaan’s short story—is a visceral 96-minute descent into scientific hubris and biological nightmare. It follows an eccentric inventor whose breakthrough in teleportation leads to a catastrophic genetic splicing with a common housefly, triggering a slow, agonizing metamorphosis into something inhuman. Yet, at its core, it is a story about the woman who stays by his side. Every time I revisit this film, the sheer pathos of their doomed connection leaves me devastated. It is a hauntingly beautiful tragedy of what might have been.
It is perfectly understandable if the sight of sloughing skin, dissolving jaws, and the stomach-churning spectacle of corrosive vomit doesn’t exactly scream “romance.” However, beneath the layers of prosthetic gore and liquefied baboons, The Fly stands as one of the most profoundly moving love stories in cinema history. It isn’t a “feel-good” experience, and by the final act, it certainly isn’t erotic, but it captures the essence of a devastating, inescapable bond.
This is the brilliance of David Cronenberg. While he is often hailed as the sultan of “body horror” for works like Videodrome and Rabid, he is also a remarkably sharp dramatist with a deep well of empathy for his protagonists. His most enduring films, ranging from Dead Ringers to A History of Violence, often masquerade as genre thrillers or psychodramas. Yet, beneath the unsettling surface, they are lean, heart-wrenching melodramas featuring ordinary people crushed by their own inherent flaws and desperate desires for happiness.
Image: 20th Century Fox/Everett Collection
The Fly is perhaps Cronenberg’s most focused exploration of a singular romantic relationship. The narrative remains locked onto the bond between scientist Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum) and journalist Ronnie Quaife (Geena Davis) from the opening frame. Their courtship begins with a classic, high-concept pickup line: Seth invites her to his laboratory to witness a discovery that will “change the world.” Though skeptical, Ronnie is charmed by his awkward intensity. What follows is a sequence of intimate moments—cocktail-bar piano and the flirtatious removal of a single stocking—that serve as a prelude to a revolutionary scientific demonstration.
The chemistry between Davis and Goldblum—who were a real-life couple at the time—is palpable and electrifying. They possess a synchronized energy that matches their tall, striking frames. In this story, eroticism acts as the catalyst for discovery; it is Seth’s sexual awakening with Ronnie that provides the missing piece to his scientific puzzle. He realizes his teleporter failed with organic life because it lacked an understanding of the “poetry of the steak”—the messy, irrational vitality of the flesh.
Their relationship is a private world, interrupted only by Ronnie’s obsessive editor and former lover, Stathis Borans (John Getz). Stathis serves as the catalyst for the film’s central tragedy; it is a fit of jealous pique over Ronnie’s perceived lingering connection to Stathis that drives Seth to drunkenly test the teleporter on himself. The cruel irony is that Ronnie was actually severing ties with Stathis to commit fully to Seth. It’s a classic misunderstanding with monstrous consequences.
Image: 20th Century Fox/Everett Collection
Initially, the fly DNA grants Seth a surge of vitality, leading to a sequence where Ronnie watches him perform hyper-athletic feats with a mix of awe and desire. However, this vigor soon curdles into arrogance and physical decay. As Seth becomes more grotesque, Ronnie is naturally repulsed, yet she is tethered to him by a profound sense of mourning. Geena Davis delivers a performance of incredible vulnerability, making the audience feel every ounce of her grief as she attempts to comfort a man who is literally falling apart before her eyes.
While the film echoes the “Beauty and the Beast” trope, it subverts the archetype by removing the possibility of redemption. This isn’t a story of seeing past a monster’s exterior to find his humanity; it’s the horror of watching that humanity evaporate in real-time. Ronnie’s journey isn’t from fear to love, but from romantic attraction to the heavy, terminal weight of compassion.
Even when the film leans into pulp horror conventions with the “Brundlefly” abducting the maiden, the motivation remains tragically sentimental. Upon discovering Ronnie is pregnant, Seth—now a mourning hybrid—proposes a horrifying fusion. He wants to use the telepods to merge their DNA into a single entity. “A family,” he croaks, a desperate attempt to reclaim a fragment of his lost identity through a twisted biological union.
Image: 20th Century Fox/Everett Collection
The finale isn’t about a hero defeating a monster. It is a moment of pure, agonizing mercy. As Ronnie faces the creature Seth has become—one of the most pitiable and repellent designs in cinematic history—the film concludes with an act of love that necessitates an ending. It is a raw, devastating climax that transforms a horror movie into a profound meditation on loss. In the annals of film, you’ll find few deaths as sorrowful as this one.
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Ultimately, The Fly resonates because it possesses a tender, melancholic spirit usually reserved for classic dramas like Brief Encounter. It is a masterpiece of the macabre that reminds us that while the flesh is frail and often revolting, love remains the only thing that provides us with true dignity.
Source: Polygon
