SEX, LIES, AND VIDEOTAPE (1989)

A sexually repressed woman's husband is having an affair with her sister. The arrival of a visitor with a rather unusual fetish changes everything.

by Conall McManus 15th August 202413th August 2024 Leave a reply

“Let’s talk about sex.”

The main characters in Steven Soderbergh’s Sex, Lies, and Videotape do precisely that—a lot. Amidst political subtexts, moral qualms, and concerns regarding emotional and physical distance in late-20th-century relationships, a preoccupation with sex pervades: voyeurism, masturbation, extramarital affairs, and the female orgasm all take centre stage.

John Mullany (Peter Gallagher) is married to the beautiful Ann Bishop Mullany (Andie MacDowell). However, blaming Ann’s frigidity for causing him dissatisfaction in their marriage, John begins an affair with Cynthia Bishop (Laura San Giacomo), Ann’s sister. Although the deceitful pair appear content in their betrayals, the arrival of John’s old friend Graham (James Spader) soon appears to upset the balance of the love triangle…

Being the first word in the title, it seems obvious that sex would be a principal theme in the story. This is first presented in the film’s opening monologue: Ann laments to her therapist that she loathes being touched, and when asked if she ever touches herself, she blushes, only revealing that she considers the practice to be silly. Then, as though her subconscious were actively defending itself, she begins expressing her great concern about the garbage problem—where does it all go?

Social taboos related to sexuality and the neuroses they instil become one of Soderbergh’s interests in the film. In the opening monologue, Ann divulges her fear about how garbage can only continue to pile up, but last week she was concerned about the families of airline fatalities, and the next week she’s crestfallen about the situation in Ethiopia. As we’ll soon discover, all the characters in this film have a distinctly perverse relationship with their sexuality.

Graham, for instance, is impotent, revealing to Ann that he’s incapable of achieving an erection in another’s company. However, he reveals that this wasn’t always the case and that he still finds a way to pleasure himself: he records women discussing their sexual proclivities. In talking about their sexual history in detail, while recording it on videotape, Graham finds it possible to become aroused; he finds it impossible to be physically close to someone, but the videotape provides him with the necessary distance.

This theme of distance becomes prominent throughout the film. Each character is aloof in some form or another. It’s most striking in Graham, who requires a barrier of one-inch videotape to feel truly comfortable with another person. However, distance is also apparent in every direction of the love triangle. Ann and Cynthia pretend their relationship is without issue, but it’s obvious that they both harbour resentment towards the other for an unspecified reason. Ann and John barely speak; when they do, it’s without a shred of intimacy.

Finally, it’s apparent that Cynthia and John only have a base, morbid attachment to each other: John’s appreciation for Ann’s younger sister is purely carnal, while Cynthia seems to be engaging in the affair as a means of sublimating whatever petty jealousies she begrudges her sister. Overcoming emotional issues is tackled in various ways. The three methods that our principal characters use to best their various neuroses are revealed in the film’s title: sex, lies, and videotape.

Of course, how each party tries to triumph over these psychological hurdles incurs ethical questions. However, the moral concerns over Cynthia and John’s relationship are not as obvious as they might seem. Having an affair with your wife’s sister or sister’s husband is wrong in many ways—but it’s the lying that stands as the ultimate betrayal. When Ann becomes suspicious of John about his having an affair, she warns him: “I’d be very upset, but not as upset as if I’d found out you’d been lying.”

The prevalence of lying in their group—which, perhaps, serves as a microcosm for society as a whole—is hinted at early on in the film. As Graham sits at the dinner table, he remarks that: “A liar is the second-lowest form of human being.” Indeed, it’s only when John begins lying and gaslighting Ann that we realise he is truly unforgivable. Whereas Cynthia has betrayed her sister, she never actively lies to her, and there’s a look of contrition in her eyes which John tellingly lacks.

John isn’t only the second-lowest form of human being but also the first: a lawyer. His lifestyle choices are subtly shown to be starkly different from Graham’s. In a conversation as simple as how many keys one should own, we are provided insight into both John and Graham’s personalities. As Graham elucidates: “Well, see, right now I have this one key, and I really like that. Everything I own is in my car. If I get a flat, that’s two keys. If I get a job, maybe I have to open and close once in a while, that’s more keys. Or I buy some stuff, and I’m worried about getting ripped off, so I get some locks, and that’s more keys.”

Graham represents the vestiges of the 1960s counterculture, a troubled artist who is averse to materialism; he’d rather have a car than a house, favouring mobility over stability. Meanwhile, John treats such behaviour with suspicion. He doesn’t have an issue with accruing keys (or women, for that matter). As a proud consumer capitalist, he’s the foil to Graham’s complex artist. As the pair engage in a clandestine feud, it appears to be a comment on the political climate that is simmering in the wake of Ronald Reagan’s tenure as President.

However, the conversation always comes back to sex. The sexual differences between men and women arise, and audiences probably felt like they had accidentally wandered into another showing of When Harry Met Sally… (1989). Graham informs Ann: “I remember reading somewhere that men learn to love the person that they’re attracted to, and that women become more and more attracted to the person that they love.” Much like Billy Crystal’s hypothesis about men and women, it’s not so much about whether the axiom is true but merely the fact that a man and a woman are talking intimately about intimate things.

The character’s different approach to intimacy reveals their psychology. What they can’t understand lays bare their various neuroses: Ann can’t fathom sexual intercourse, even when alone. Cynthia uses intimacy as a weapon to hurt her sister (the reason why is thankfully left unsaid). John cannot comprehend Graham’s connection to his video subjects, especially considering the lack of physicality. And Graham is incapable of being intimate with anyone, due to the fact he lacks trust. Sex isn’t used frivolously as in an exploitation film; instead, it serves a thematic purpose, revealing much about our characters and the world they inhabit.

Steven Soderbergh demonstrated a keen understanding of cinema’s power at only 26 years old. Much like in The Conversation (1974), the relationship between image and audio in Soderbergh’s film is not always clearly defined, perhaps communicating the doubt that enshrouds people when they’re the victims of pathological liars: there is a duality between what is seen and what is heard. Or perhaps it’s suggesting that the filmmaking process is itself a lie, with the title referring to how sex is so commonly the subject matter of 1980s videotapes.

Given the fact Soderbergh had a list of titles for the film, with the producers picking this one, it would be equally fair to assume that there is no meaning at all behind the film’s title. Maybe I am engaging in another futile hermeneutic endeavour, as was the case with Un Chien Andalou (1929). Yet, it seems unthinkable to have another title for this Palme d’Or winning feature; it perfectly summarises the themes of the film and the characters it contains.

At a pivotal moment in the film, Ann asks Graham: “Sex? What about sex?” Graham flatly replies: “Everything about sex.” Soderbergh mystifies our sexual inclinations, our hidden desires, and our basest fantasies. Much like in Eyes Wide Shut (1999), our behaviours are enigmatic and inexplicable to us, and it seems the more we attempt to clarify the obscure, the more abstruse our actions appear.

Then, Soderbergh performs a magic trick: in the blink of an eye, problems are resolved. Wordlessly, the sex, the lies, and the videotape all amount to an easy answer for each character. Penitence, punishment, and forgiveness all occur off-screen—and it feels undeniably realistic. That’s because our director is shrewdly aware of a little secret, one that Graham comes to realise himself: the real magic occurs when the camera’s switched off.

USA | 1989 | 100 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH