Put the swatters down for body horror king David Cronenberg’s The Fly, a beautifully grotesque tragic romance that has withstood the test of time. The Canadian director and writer, known for such works as Videodrome, Dead Ringers, and most recently Crimes of the Future, has been churning out one creative gem of science fiction horror after another. Looking back on his illustrious career, the feature with the loudest buzz is a masterful 1986 remake of a 1958 Kurt Neumann film, originally based on a 1950s short story written by George Langelaan. The Fly follows an eccentric scientist whose experimentation with self-teleportation goes awry when a housefly enters the transmitter pod with him, causing the gene-splicing fusion of insect and human. What transpires is a gruesome, gooey, and gradual skin-deep transformation of deteriorating body parts. Beyond the physicality, a brilliant mind also splatters into pieces of incoherence, shame, arrogance, and emotional defeat. 

There was (and still is) a big appetite for this tragic story. To this day, The Fly is the most commercially successful and overall highest rated feature of Cronenberg’s career. Starring Jeff Goldblum as scientist Seth Brundle, Geena Davis as journalist Veronica ‘Ronnie’ Quaife, and John Getz as editor Stathis Borans, the film made over 60 million dollars at the box office, on a budget of somewhere between 9 to 15 million. The Fly hits so many pinnacles of greatness — it’s one of the most iconic horror films of all time, and an innovative entry into the sub-genre of body horror. It’s a remake that stands alone in its uniqueness, and a visceral example of the magic realism of practical effects. It’s one of the most sensual and beguiling displays of doomed love, and speaks to the importance of chemistry (it did not come as a surprise in the slightest to discover that Goldblum and Davis were a real couple off-screen). Not to mention, before the ‘open shirt’ scene in Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park, there was Seth Brundle crouched down in a telepod surrounded by smoke. And a perspiring Seth Brundle doing nocturnal gymnastics while an astonished Veronica watches on. Several moments in the film bring out Goldblum’s sparkling appeal.

When thinking of The Fly, the incredible skin-crawling practical effects immediately rush to mind. Blotches and vomit and guts, oh my. And that doesn’t even begin to describe the most dramatic stage of Brundle’s transformation, which unravels during the film’s final act. Brundlefly is the monstrous creation of special effects artist Chris Walas (known for his creation of the Gremlins), along with his team from Chris Walas, Inc., as well as makeup supervisor Stephan DuPuis (known for his work on several Cronenberg films, from Scanners to Spider). Their evergreen collaboration was deservingly awarded at the 1987 Academy Awards when The Fly won Best Makeup, the film’s sole nomination. Also worthy of accolades and painfully overlooked at the Oscars, two tremendous actors whose individual performances and fusion of chemistry unlock throbbing hearts amidst fleshy decay. 

Goldblum’s quirkiness and spontaneity are the perfect match for bringing Seth’s enthusiastic character to life. Davis’s emotional range and warmth as Veronica are reminders of just how much empathy is involved in the storytelling. She desperately tries to understand why Seth is changing, while also navigating her own fear and personal affiliation. Their relationship as star-crossed lovers turns upside down by an uncontrollable disintegration of body and mind. Part of what gives The Fly such ingrained emotional power is how the story works as a blueprint of illness and its effect on human interaction. What happens when one half of a duo lives through a debilitating condition? How do you confront the pressure and navigate through your love for someone whose core identity is becoming unrecognizable?

In the testing stages of Seth’s teleportation sequence, he experiments with a piece of steak. He cooks one half, and teleports the other. When Veronica tries a piece of the other half, she finds it inedible. It tastes synthetic, and therein lies the eureka moment. Seth’s computer doesn’t understand human flesh. The technology is giving its cold interpretation of a steak, instead of re-materializing its pure form. For the teleportation sequence to work the way he intends it to — with the end goal of teleporting himself 50 feet into space from one pod to another — Seth reprograms the computer to recognize the truest and purest level of a human subject. Not fitting into such classification, the fly’s presence in the pod with Brundle confuses the technology, and thus a hybrid is born. 

Brundlefly is more than just a horror movie monster. Its very concoction represents the slow-motion vanishing of Seth’s humanity, and the mental gymnastics being done to fight for it until the very end. In an act of desperation, Brundle (nearing the full extent of his insect form) refines his fusion program so that the two pods act as human gene-splicers. His goal is fusion with another subject (Veronica) to reduce the percentage of fly in him. With story developments such as this one, the film consistently finds ways of extending compassion to Seth’s condition and stressing the utter desperation to save whatever humanity is left in him. Cronenberg and co-screenwriter Charles Edward Pogue tell an incredibly human story from a sci-fi spectacle. They give an empathetic interpretation of a person undergoing an illness that bears some similarity to the genetics and mutations of cancer cells. When Seth explains to Veronica that a fly had gotten into the transmitter pod, he refers to the effects of its gene-splicing as a “bizarre form of cancer.” The disease wants to turn him into something else. In this scene, she sees him in one of his most gruesome moments involving a lost ear and an acidic vomit-covered doughnut; his body is quite literally falling apart, and he starts to replicate how a fly eats. His desperation and fear in this moment, coupled with her commitment of going back to him and trying to help, speaks to their love in sickness and in health. 

When it comes to roles that Goldblum and Davis will be most remembered for, The Fly certainly ranks high, and for good reason. The central performances are a vital part of what makes the film feel so real. Through their work, you can easily recognize the humanity behind every moment. Goldblum as Brundle is genius casting. His wide-eyed passion and curiosity at the beginning of the film set an infectious tone. You hang onto his zest for life, his enthrallment of being on the verge of a world-changing invention. Goldblum fits, not only for his charm and eccentricity, but also his mannerisms. He acts with his entire body. It’s a quality that comes especially handy when the Brundlefly transformation is underway. From the twitching and darting eyes, to the stuttering speech and licking of lips. Plus, he excels at the character’s cognitive transformation and various shifts in personality traits, from lyrical and meditative to arrogant and impulsive. Brundle’s physical features may be unrecognizable, but his human emotions are, right to the very end. From his phenomenal speech on insect politics (“No compassion, no compromise”) to his begging to be put out of his misery after fusion with the telepod machinery itself.

That The Fly begins with a meet-cute, one of the main ingredients of the rom-com genre, speaks to how it is essentially a romance at its core. Seth and Veronica are attracted to each other like months to a flame. They play the dynamic of passionate scientist and eager journalist, both on the cusp of discovery. When they meet at a buzzing science conference, their flirtations lead him to show her his top secret laboratory. There, he keeps his telepods which she teasingly refers to as “designer phone booths.” Then comes the realization that he is the real deal — when one of her stockings is successfully teleported. She wants to write a story about him, but he’s not ready to go public yet. Not before he figures out a way to transport himself through space. Early into the film comes one of its most memorable lines: “I’ve come to say one magic word to you: cheeseburger.” This is the pitch. He wants to be her project. He wants to be the subject not of a magazine article, but books. He wants her to cover the teleportation research process day by day, until he transcends earth. “Wait for me that long?” he asks her. The romanticism of this line aches. 

Seth and Veronica’s romance is one of the most tender to ever grace the screen, which is just as much a testament to Davis’s talent. She carries an observational quality in her acting that evokes a curious spirit, and maintains that she is present in every moment. She captures Veronica’s sense of composure and determination as a journalist looking to break what could the biggest story of her career. Her playfulness and teasing nature shine in the film’s more romantic moments. Davis also conveys incredible emotional range once witnessing the changes in Seth. Her concern and fear are palpable, felt especially in her iconic delivery of “Be afraid. Be very afraid,” a line that became the film’s tagline. As well, when Veronica discovers she is pregnant with Seth’s baby, her anguish and uncertainty are stirring to watch. One of the most heartbreaking scenes of the film is when she visits him at the laboratory to share this news, but cannot find a way to tell him. All the while, he delivers the incredible “insect politics” speech that ends with “I’ll hurt you if you stay.” He then finds out from afar about her pregnancy, after which more heartache ensues.

The story is driven by emotion — love, fear, pride, anger, jealousy, disgust, despair. In the early blossoming of their romance, when Veronica tells Seth that she has to scrape the residue of her past life off her shoe, he works out that she’s referring to Stathis, her current editor and ex-boyfriend. Seth’s jealousy is what drives him to teleport himself in the first place. With an imagination running wild, eager to change the world once and for all, he steps into the ill fated pod and meets destiny. By establishing the characters and the subtleties of their personalities first and foremost, the film and its core love story are all the more emotionally resonant. Seth and Veronica’s complicated romance frames The Fly in its entirety, from the meet-cute beginning to the agonizing end.

Beyond its tragic romance, one of the most resonating features of The Fly is of course its technical achievements. Around the time of the film’s release, practical effects had already reached a golden age. From the melting faces in Steven Spielberg’s Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, and the fantastical creatures of Jim Henson and Frank Oz’s The Dark Crystal, to the iconic monster in John Carpenter’s The Thing. These films are in astounding company with the prosthetics, puppetry, and animatronics of The Fly. The transformation of Brundlefly could have gone a number of ways. The filmmakers could have kept you completely in the dark until the very end. When it comes to the horror genre, sometimes the less you see of a creature, the more effective its impact. But in the case of The Fly, more is more. 

Brundle is a tragic figure; he falls into the trappings of his own pride. His transformation is one of gradual deterioration that elicits heartache and pity far more than it does intimidation and fear. From the blotchy skin and shedding of fingernails to the acidic vomit, loss of hair and teeth, and full-on fleshy body suit. Piece by piece, you see how his entire body is turned into a shell, which then cracks in the stomach-churning final sequence. The ‘head splitting’ scene, in which Brundle’s head breaks apart to reveal the fly’s head underneath, is absolutely gross to a visceral degree. It’s also transfixing to watch, in that it leaves you in awe of how these effects were achieved. The overall movement of the puppeteering is an impressive feat as well, especially when in the confines of the telepod. That the practical effects elicit such a visceral reaction also speaks to, once again, the humanity of this story. The most depressing moment of The Fly is the ending, when Brundlefly fuses with the telepod. The grotesque leftovers crawl towards Veronica and position her gun at its head. You could feel bits and pieces of Seth, even in this form. In addition to the final transformation sequence, various examples of practical effects brilliance are sprinkled throughout. The arm-wrestling bone snap, the Museum of Brundle Natural History (complete with Goldblum’s charming line delivery of “You’re a relic, yes you are”), Stathis’s liquified limbs (featuring wonderful acting by Getz), and who could forget the nightmarish hospital scene with the writhing larvae? 

Beyond the practical effects and makeup, The Fly shines from multiple other technical standpoints. Carol Spier’s production design accentuates the abandoned quality of Seth’s laboratory; he really is left to his own devices, immersed in his technology. Denise Cronenberg’s costume design is a neat extension of character, like Seth having multiple sets of the same outfit (a choice he borrows from Einstein, so as not to expand any thought on what to wear). Seth’s transformation is also reflected through the use of clothing; with his newly accelerated sex drive, he wears less and less, until the insect body suit takes over. Howard Shore’s sweeping score is appropriately grand, with elements of strings that scream tragedy. The score is used at the most opportune times — whether to convey a climactic moment (when Brundle realizes his fusion with the fly), scaled down intimacy, or epic terror (the first shot of Brundlefly in its full form). This is one of Shore’s most exquisite works, for its ability to transport you into the depths of how sad The Fly is. 

Repulsive and compassionate, The Fly does body horror on a level that cuts deep. It’s a horror film not only in its visuals and concept, but also in its sentiment and exploration of universal themes. The idea of the body being manipulated beyond one’s control is a nightmare. There is also the fear of watching one’s body deteriorate day by day, the fear of aging, the gradual loss of living. Cronenberg strikes a balance between showing the insensitivity of how Brundle’s condition is treated (contagion and deformity), as well as the beauty of humanity and the desperation to become more human (“I’m an insect who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over and the insect is awake.”). In each and every rewatch of The Fly, the film’s tragedy sticks to you more than any gooey bit of flesh does. 37 years on, Cronenberg’s love bug shines with textured practical effects that put some of today’s CGI to shame, and vibrates with endless sensitivity for its subjects.