If the marketers back in the day had any sense, 1985’s Déjà Vu would have been renamed Diva Vu and they would have circulated ads for it in all of that era’s top gay magazines. For this is the rare film that features (extremely complicated) acting legend Shelley Winters locking lips with a bewigged Jaclyn Smith, fairly fresh off her 5-year run as the glamourous, self-sufficient Kelly Garrett on Charlie’s Angels. Throw in a regal Claire Bloom, costumed with refined elegance and dripping with purely evil joie de veuve, & you have a minor gothic horror that is a perfect fit for those of a certain age and a particular preference.
Plotwise here, we find a successful novelist named Michael (Nigel Terry) becoming fascinated by a long dead ballerina named Maggie (Smith). While doing research on her, he becomes convinced that he and Brooke (also Smith), his American actress fiancée, are the reincarnated versions of Maggie and her lover. His encounters with a Russian psychic/hypnotist named Olga (Winters), an eccentric woman who claims to have known Maggie well, seem to reinforce this belief. But when Michael begins receiving threatening letters and spooky answering machine messages from Eleanor (Bloom), Maggie’s decades-deceased mother, he knows he is either losing his mind or that something sinister is afoot. Of course, when Brooke surprises him with a visit, during a break in filming her latest project, his deadliest fears become reality, and a fiery showdown is assured for all involved.
Lushly directed by Anthony B. Richmond, the cinematographer of such modern classics as Don’t Look Down and The Man Who Fell to Earth, the project’s biggest flaws seem to reside in it’s editing. There are times when the characters’ odd actions, specifically with Winters’ Olga, are not fully addressed, resulting in some awkward storyline issues. As the film reaches it’s end, it almost feels as if scenes are missing, as well, especially in reference to the deadly transformation of Smith’s Brooke. Otherwise, in one particularly amusing moment, a very naked Terry suddenly grows a pair of bright blue speedo-underwear — without even lifting a leg!!
But the true joy here is watching the leading ladies tear up the scenery. Smith, whose speaking voice already feels like a knife on velvet, is especially effective as Brooke descends into pure evil. Meanwhile, Winters and Bloom are simply dreamy in whatever situation that the trio of screenwriters slip them into. Whether Winters is demanding a vodka from an unwilling host or Bloom is coolly accessing a rival, their screentime is pure, queer heart capturing gold.
Until the next time, SWEET love and pink GRUE, Big Gay Horror Fan!
Big Gay Horror Fan 