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“You’re nobody in America unless you’re on TV.” So says Nicole Kidman in her breathlessly over-the-top role as Suzanne Stone Maretto in Gus Van Sant’s 1995 black comedy To Die For. You’d be forgiven for thinking that quote sounds like something straight from America’s celebrity president’s Twitter feed, but the film is so stylish, so filled with ripped-from-the-headlines darkness rendered in incongruously bright hues, that it seems to both predict our fame-obsessed, trashy political and cultural moment and float above it, like a transmission from a parallel pop-art planet.
The film was based on a novel by Joyce Maynard that was in turn inspired by the real-life case of Pamela Smart, a young woman who was convicted of recruiting her underage lover to kill her husband in the early ’90s. Just a few years after the trial captivated the media with its splashy themes of seduction and murder, To Die For turned its foundations into a heightened mockumentary whose influence can be felt in ’90s-channeling films like I, Tonya. Veteran screenwriter Buck Henry, who recently passed away, gave the film a barbed wit that kept it from falling into the expository TV movie trap that is so often a risk with this type of story. As Suzanne, Kidman is the very definition of extra—laser-focused and perfectly done-up at all times, she alone could carry the movie, but the cast is rounded out with memorable faces like Matt Dillon as her cute but dim husband, Illeana Douglas as his no-nonsense figure skater sister, and Joaquin Phoenix and Casey Affleck as the dirtbag teens who fall under Suzanne’s spell.
It would be easy for Suzanne to be a one-dimensional caricature of an evil woman, and To Die For does have something of an abrasive sensibility. The opening credits pair Danny Elfman’s heavy metal infused score with tabloid imagery, placing us in an enveloping but tawdry world. Much of Suzanne’s philosophy is revealed through direct-to-camera shots of her espousing the importance of fame and TV. When she looks at us, it is impossible to look away. Suzanne’s obvious beauty aids her single-minded quest for fame, but Kidman also imbues her with an uncanny ferociousness. When Suzanne interviews for a job at a local cable station in the hopes of climbing the professional ladder, she comes prepared not just to get the job but also to remake the station in her image. She’s hired, and soon enough she’s doing the weather report. It’s as if she took every clichéd piece of career advice—”Put yourself out there!” “Set goals for yourself!”—and multiplied it by a thousand. She is simultaneously charismatic and terrifying, posing in pastel gingham ensembles and treating everyone she encounters as a pawn in her devious game. Her wardrobe is a dream: every outfit she wears is equal part Barbie doll, ’60s housewife, and ’90s Versace model. She looks glamorous, but it’s immediately clear that the colorful, hyperfeminine outfits are all part of a role she’s playing with devious precision. Years before the idea of the “girlboss” entered the cultural imagination, Suzanne embodied it. She doesn’t just lean in, she lunges. One shudders to think how she could use social media. Her desire for fame as a monolithic concept unrelated to creative talent marks her as an ideal influencer.
Watching To Die For in 2020, some 25 years after its release, it seems like Suzanne could run for president if she put her mind to it. There’s been a lot of talk lately about “difficult” women characters as examples of pop feminism, and while Suzanne is as difficult as they come, we aren’t meant to relate to her or see her as some kind of stealth feminist heroine. She’s a criminal who ends up dead, but she’s not just a cautionary tale or a cartoon villain. “Toxic masculinity” is another buzzword, but Suzanne is like a nightmare vision of toxic femininity. Her entitlement, presented as an exaggerated part of the film’s satire, feels more recognizable than ever today. She believes she is owed fame simply because she wants it—the film may be solidly Gen X, but anyone who’s heard the oft-repeated quibbles about millennial entitlement can recognize some distinct generational similarities. Suzanne’s every move is a means of furthering her celebrity agenda. Her husband is besotted by her, not recognizing her machinations, and she wields her sexuality like a weapon. The performance is one of Kidman’s finest. She looks like she could be America’s sweetheart and speaks in self-determined aphorisms, building a façade that appears so flawless it’s made to be cracked. Satire often dates quickly, but thanks in large part to Kidman’s vicious performance, To Die For still feels urgent.
Abbey Bender is a New York-based writer with bylines in The Washington Post, The Village Voice, Nylon, Sight & Sound, and other publications.
