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Most people probably wouldn’t put “romance” and “David Cronenberg” in the same sentence, unless they were talking about the lack of romance in Cronenberg films. The director has made movies across a wide variety of genres over the years, but much of his early work is in horror and science fiction. Romance doesn’t seem to play a large role in many of these films, particularly his earliest trifecta of Shivers, Rabid, and The Brood. In 1986, Cronenberg’s remake of 1958’s The Fly pivots to something much different from his previous work: monster romance.

How do we get from the horrors of Shivers to, well, horror of a different kind in The Fly?

Cronenberg’s early work certainly doesn’t explore romance in a meaningful way; the films don’t shy away from sex, but Cronenberg avoids romantic tropes or undertones. Rabid’s main character, Rose, is separated from her partner, Hart, at the beginning of the film after a motorcycle accident. When they find each other, it’s decidedly not a reunion romance. And The Brood, written and directed when Cronenberg was in the middle of an acrimonious divorce, is full of visceral rage following the collapse of a marriage and Cronenberg explores how it manifests in murderous ways. 

Videodrome’s dysfunctional and twisted “romance” isn’t exactly a love story for the ages. Max, the main character in the film, is pulled into a dark and obsessive relationship that certainly doesn’t feature a Happily Ever After. Max meets Nicki, a mysterious
woman who pulls Max deeper into the dark world of Videodrome. There is a distinct lack of emotional and romantic connection, though they pursue a sexual relationship. The lines between sex and violence blur as the story progresses, ultimately leading to horrific consequences (you have to see it for yourself). So it’s clear that early Cronenberg films are not terribly interested in the emotional repercussions of characters’ interactions, at least not in a way that would resonate with anyone looking for romance in these movies.

These early films typically explore sex and the body in an unflinching, albeit clinical, way. But when we look a little closer, we can see that as his work progresses, Cronenberg begins to examine relationships with more emotional depth. In particular, The Fly tells an incredibly romantic and tragic story. When Mel Brooks (yes, that Mel Brooks, of Young Frankenstein fame), decided he wanted Cronenberg to direct the remake of the 1958 Fox film starring Vincent Price, I don’t know if he was expecting such an emotional film. These romance elements are often overlooked by critics who focus on the body horror, which is, admittedly, hard to ignore. One of the early horror films in the 1980s to explore deeper romantic connections rather than shallow sexual trysts in the midst of murder and mayhem, Cronenberg’s remake adds an emotional layer that solidifies the monster romance trope.

The Fly follows very standard romance beats in the opening act. The couple’s introduction wouldn’t be out of place in a more contemporary, mainstream romance where opposites attract. Veronica Quaife (played by Geena Davis) is a smart, funny journalist who falls for Jeff Goldblum’s enigmatic scientist Seth Brundle, and the two strike up a believable partnership (helped by the fact that the two actors were romantically involved off screen at the time). Cronenberg gives us two protagonists who really feel like equals, and the audience becomes emotionally invested in their romance early on. This of course makes their inevitable downfall that much more tragic.

In romance, there’s always a conflict that presents itself and threatens the main couple. Sometimes it’s external, like a rival for one of the partners. In other stories, the main conflict is internal, whether it’s commitment phobia, past trauma, or in Seth’s case, jealousy. Seth’s work is his driving motivation, and the distraction that Ronnie brings into his life—a distraction that could be wonderful if he gave himself fully over to it—is ultimately what leads to his downfall. Ronnie and Seth find love while working together (another great romance trope), then the conflict sets in. Seth, jealous over Ronnie’s old boyfriend, decides to test the teleportation device himself when Ronnie leaves after an argument. Not noticing the fly that sneaks into the device, Seth seals his messy, tragic fate.

The Fly was released in 1986 near the height of the AIDS crisis in North America. Many critics and audience members equated Seth’s agonizing transformation into a human/fly hybrid (or Brundlefly) with those afflicted with AIDS, and the parallels are easy to see. Seth’s slow metamorphosis is horrifyingly realized on screen: it’s visceral, wet, and, well, disgusting. But Cronenberg has said in past interviews that he doesn’t feel as though The Fly has anything to do with AIDS specifically. He argues that all love stories end in tragedy, especially if you don’t believe in an afterlife. One partner will always leave behind the other, either quickly and without warning or slowly and painfully. Ronnie and Seth could be any pair of young lovers who has to reckon with an unexpected disease or accident.

The reason The Fly remains so compelling is that Ronnie truly loves Seth. She stands by him for better for worse, in health and horrible sickness. There’s a little bit of Florence Nightingale syndrome in the film, an “I can fix him” vibe that is so common in romance fiction. But there’s more going on here. Ronnie can’t help but love the Seth creature, even as he becomes more terrifying. Though we see iterations of monster romance in films dating all the way back to Island of Lost Souls in the 1930s, The Fly is one of the first movies to show a woman who isn’t unwillingly seduced or compelled through magical means to stay with the monstrous hero. Ronnie knowingly and defiantly returns to Seth even when she knows they can no longer be together the way they were. The film ends with Ronnie shooting Seth, ending his suffering. But hers remains. At least she’ll have a larval fly to remember him by.

Sure, Cronenberg doesn’t exactly craft a happily ever after for Ronnie and Seth, but there’s no denying that The Fly delivers a compelling, emotional, and highly romantic story. Perhaps, as Cronenberg says, all romances end in tragedy. At least Ronnie and Seth were able to find love together, if only for a little while.

While The Fly proved that Cronenberg could in fact create believable emotional connections through romantic relationships on screen, his next film, Dead Ringers, didn’t continue that exploration of romance, certainly not in the traditional sense. The film is often described as cold, clinical, and chilling, a sign that Cronenberg had reverted back to his previous detached style of filmmaking. But there are definitely some romance tropes at play here, and while there is a sort of removed quality to the scenes throughout the film, I think the romance is there. It’s just not between the characters you’d expect.

Jeremy Irons plays dual roles as Beverly and Elliot Mantle, twin gyneocologists treating fertility issues at their clinic in Toronto, Canada. The two brothers are externally identical, but internally their personalities couldn’t be more different. Elliot is confident, ruthless, and commanding, while Beverly is shy, sensitive, and withdrawn. Bev spends much of his time with the twins’ patients as they struggle with various gynecological problems, and Elliot is outgoing, promoting the pair’s work and accepting awards for the both of them. In addition to sharing accolades and research methods, the twins share women: Elliot sleeps with them first and when he grows tired of his conquest, he passes the woman off to Beverly, who assumes his brother’s identity. This dysfunctional and, let’s face it, predatory behavior comes to a halt when Claire, played by Genevieve Bujold, enters the twins’ clinic.

It begins as a typical romantic relationship for the men, with Claire unknowingly becoming part of a throuple. But Beverly develops an attachment to Claire that the twins are completely unprepared for. This love triangle threatens the deepest relationship the doctors have ever known: the connection each one feels for the other. On the surface it seems like Bev and Claire are the romantic pairing in Dead Ringers, but I would argue the central emotional bond is between the brothers, which gives the film even more disturbing context. Loosely based on a true story of twin gynecologists who were found dead and decomposing in their luxury apartment, Cronenberg imagines the ties between the men as ultimately unbreakable. Their codependent, toxic relationship is full of enabling, jealousy, and depression, but it’s also full of longing and compassion. Jeremy Irons does a stellar job of showing us two wildly different characters, and his ability to create such depth and nuance carries the film to its disturbing and heartbreaking conclusion.

I don’t want to mislead anyone: while the film does have romantic elements, albeit twisted and distorted ones, it’s definitely not missing the horror. This movie feels more in line with some of the “elevated horror” that came to the forefront in the 2010s; there is very little in the way of gore or grotesquerie on screen, save for a few key moments. But I think anyone who’s ever had a uterus would agree that the sequences in the operating room and in the clinic are some of the most uncomfortable moments on film, even without seeing much in the way of blood and guts. The images of monstrous gynecological tools and pained expressions on patients’ faces are more than enough to make many audience members uncomfortable, and Cronenberg is unflinching in showing the twins’ often cruel and callous treatment of their female patients as they spiral out of control.

This is a modern Gothic, all moody lighting and sharp angles, with family legacies and sordid ethical violations coming to a head in a melancholy and almost inevitable way. The oppressive interior nature of the film (there are only very few shots that take place outside) heightens the feelings of paranoia and claustrophobia as the two brothers move closer to each other and farther away from everyone else in their lives.

Though Cronenberg sets up Beverly and Claire as the relationship we’re meant to root for on the surface, it’s clear by the end of the film that there’s no way the twins can live separate lives. Beverly seems to be the weaker twin, but Elliot is equally bound up in his love for his brother, enabling him and slowly trying to “sync up” with him in an attempt to reconnect. Any chance Beverly might have had for happiness with Claire becomes impossible. He tries to reach out to her one last time, but changes his mind and returns to his loving brother to die together.

The contrast between these The Fly and Dead Ringers is stark, but as Cronenberg’s catalogue grows, it’s easy to see where these two very different perspectives come together and work in conversation with each other. Though there are films that skew more toward one end of the spectrum, Cronenberg begins to blur the edges, creating movies that are at the same time emotional and distant, hot and cold. Films like A History of Violence, Crash, or the more recent Crimes of the Future all borrow from each of these two disparate perspectives, and the framework of both The Fly and Dead Ringers can be seen in much of Cronenberg’s subsequent work. This emotional resonance, coupled with the grotesque body horror Cronenberg will forever be synonymous with, is why he’s one of my favorite directors.

Emma Cole is the Editor for Harlequin Intrigue. She occasionally writes short horror fiction, and volunteers as Poetry editor for Orion’s Belt magazine and associate editor for Skull & Laurel magazine. She’s also the Notes and Queries editor for the Journal of Popular Romance Studies. She’s incredibly interested in the intersection between romance and horror in all its forms.