Main cast: Marc Singer (Dr Tom Redding), Mary Crosby (Marlee Redding), Lisa Pescia (Dr Claire Archer), David Kagen (Freddie), and Joseph Campanella (Dr Pritchard)
Director: Kristine Peterson
In the 1980s, after Fatal Attraction turned the world upside down with its lurid mix of lust and lethal obsession, Hollywood’s cable channels got a brilliant idea: “Why not make a bajillion knockoffs, all shot on a budget so low it makes spare change look like a fortune?”
Enter Body Chemistry, proudly brought to you by Roger Corman, the king of cheap knockoffs who apparently thought, “Hey, why not throw in Marc ‘Beastmaster’ Singer and call it a day?”
Marc Singer stars as Dr Tom Redding, a psychologist conducting Very Important Research™ on human sexual response, which mostly looks like watching a bunch of people in catsuits trying their best not to look like they just sat on a cactus.
Along comes Lisa Pescia as Dr Claire Archer, a dangerously unstable academic who’s basically Alex Forrest’s less coherent cousin: she seduces Tom, then proceeds to stalk, sabotage, and deliver monologues about primal instincts with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Oh, and she spends roughly 90% of her screen time in various states of undress because apparently that’s how academic rivalries are settled in the ’90s.
The comedy gold starts rolling with the so-called “sexual arousal experiments”, which look less like cutting-edge science and more like a low-budget dance recital where everyone’s having a mild panic attack.
The real masterpiece, however, is Marc Singer’s facial gymnastics during the naughty scenes. His “O” face fluctuates wildly from “help me” to “I’m in physical agony” to “please, someone get me out of this career”, leaving audiences wondering if his thoughts are on the research or regretting every career choice that led him here.
Plot-wise, if you’ve seen Fatal Attraction, you can basically watch this one with your eyes closed — Claire’s obsession is textbook “I’m going to ruin your life and act like it’s just a Tuesday.”
Still, credit where it’s due: the acting is surprisingly competent for a movie where the sex scenes double as unintentional slapstick comedy. No Oscars in sight, but if there were awards for Most Convincing Train Wreck in a Softcore Film, Marc Singer would be a shoo-in.
And then there’s the pièce de résistance: the infamous shower scene. What starts as a steamy interlude quickly turns into a baffling moment of “Is that… an alien probing device?” or “Did she just grab a back scratcher?” The scene is so bizarrely choreographed it feels like a fever dream where erotic thriller tropes meet The Twilight Zone.
If you want a cinematic experience where the only thing more over-the-top than the acting is the ridiculousness of the plot, Body Chemistry is your guilty pleasure. It’s the kind of movie that reminds us sometimes bad can be so, so good — and that every once in a while, watching someone grimace through faux ecstasy can be the highlight of your evening.
