For the sheltered teenager unable to talk to their family about sex but afraid to use their dark bedroom to search the unfiltered web, movies are the perfect middle ground, providing a subtle, indirect path to experiment with yearning while safely displacing their identity onto another. Sex in film may not look the same as it used to, but where the present wanes, the past prevails for confused adolescents to stumble upon.
I don’t remember why, at 14, I had the living room to myself long enough to watch Purple Rain, but I do remember finishing the film and, for the first time, feeling aroused enough to do something about it. I was indoctrinated into 80s aesthetics from an early age, with the era taking on more hallowed meaning as I’ve gotten older. The androgynous New Wave style was instrumental in my realizing my gender expression – I am a shoulder pad enthusiast, and I pity those who don’t get it – and, in turn, my own queer identity as nonbinary. Though the 1980s are notoriously considered the worst-dressed decade, the way the era celebrated experimentation and oddity across fashion as well as music deeply resonates with me. To find a musical film like Purple Rain led by someone who was not a woman, not a man, but something I would never understand, was, as his band suggests, revolutionary.
Prince created magic with most of his projects, so ethereal that when words end, symbols take hold. His first film, Purple Rain, and the soundtrack album widely regarded as one of the greatest ever, turn 40 this year, and seeing as that is double my own age, I can attest to the longevity of its cult value. Prince’s The Kid is unkind to women and selfish about the artistic process, but his literal and figurative performance of false unity actualizes a fluidity and euphoria that reverberates across decades.
In what director Albert Magnoli noted as a pre-MTV vision, the opening montage captures the made-up but still faces of the audience who stare beyond the camera and frame. Expressionless, their aurora and glamor speak for them: the color swiped across their eyebrows and the glitter streaking down their cheeks are quintessentially 80s. They exist on the fringes, lips puckered and tongues out, inviting you to witness and exalt the music with them. Speaking as someone whose love for cinema sprouted from an obsession with 80s music videos, it’s immediately captivating.
When The Revolution takes the stage, the lines of gender blur even further. On stage left is Wendy Melvoin, right is Brownmark and in the middle is the unknowable artist, dramatizing in the liminal space. The three all dance in perfect sync, their handsome square shoulders and theatrical hair in harmony but never conformity. Like us, aspiring performer Apollonia watches and dreams of being them. In Purple Rain, lust for the body exists, but lust for what the body can do musically is just as meaningful: “Is that what turns you on? Making it?”
Even before the sex scene 40 minutes into the film, my virgin eyes were glued to Prince, following the way he moved his body, a slim muscularity under leather. Though it isn’t until after he and Apollonia fight that he more overtly gyrates and taunts the audience, The Kid’s sensuality is instantly palpable. His smirk alone is enough to send you reeling; no texture could feel sexier than his white lace against your skin. His falsetto cooing leaves Apollonia in tears, the camera slowly pushing in on her fixated gaze. There is no doubt she – we – are his.
The teasing pull of a puffy shirt to expose his chest is sufficient foreplay, or so you think, because when the two make love that night, the film doesn’t show intercourse with a rock and roll fury. Apollonia and The Kid begin slowly, their desire pulsating, the tension growing alongside electric blares. His ungloved hands caress her own lace as they rhythmically grind against each other. And that’s it. Watching it now, I’m surprised I incorrectly remembered blatant sex on screen. But this scene, along with two other quick flashes of sex, transcend the conspicuous. What is alluded to in bed is sweated on stage, consummated in concert. Wendy on her knees face to face with The Kid’s guitar-covered crotch. The scarlet-cloaked screeching of “Darling Nikki.” These fleeting instances of eroticism were enough to set my juvenile self on fire, but even upon revisiting, they remain seductive. Passionate. But, as The Kid further isolates himself and loses touch with reality, love and sex become brutal and ugly: “Your music makes sense to no one but yourself!” club owner Billy Sparks tells him.
What makes Purple Rain feel so otherworldly are the lyrics that reckon with the existentialism of life itself When The Kid sings “Things are much harder than in the afterworld; in this life, you’re on your own,” in Let’s Go Crazy, it reflects an artist’s uncertainty with their identity, seemingly at odds with the demands of the world. Raging against The Time, we put our faith in The Revolution. We fear we will become jaded like our parents, who failed in ways we hope we don’t. Queerness can feel apocalyptic, like you’re at the end of the archaic and on the cusp of a new future. The reality of the AIDS crisis exacerbated this out-of-place, out-of-time sentiment. Paradoxically, being nonbinary, against basic codes of ones and zeros, can be likened to a futuristic cyborg identity, and the extended version of “Computer Blue” seizes this ennui with synth poetry of feeling programmed incorrectly. Distorted dysphoria articulated by the same electronic sounds that would help materialize my gender euphoria, often found on the dance floor. In Prince’s vein, other Black and nonbinary artists, such as Janelle Monáe, have reclaimed such imagery of science fiction and annihilation, illustrating the alchemy of fluid queer futurism. Where there is experimental music and dance, there is communal ascendance.
The titular performance of the film is the culmination of The Kid’s struggle, but ultimate achievement, of welcoming such profound connection through music. Inheriting his father’s violent streak, he slaps Apollonia and grossly shames her for the sexual outfit she hides from him, even pushing her to the ground. It’s a conflict not dealt with through dialogue but instead through an achingly sung atonement. In finally honoring Wendy and Lisa for crafting “Purple Rain,” dedicating it to his father, and apologizing to Apollonia, he learns that one can accomplish collectivism without appealing to commercialism and that music doesn’t have to be self-involved to be authentic. It’s a puzzling and unfinished way to explore abuse, but when you hear him sing “I never meant to cause you any sorrow,” you want to believe him. A silver hooped earring shared among the lovers (indicative of beautiful 80s androgyny) reflects forgiveness and reconciliation with your flaws, as well as acceptance of one’s identity.
At the end of “I Would Die 4 U” Prince does this unforgettable kinetic move. He shuffles in a circle, twirling his hands around his face and groin, licking his fingers and indulging in himself, the camera indulging too as it spins with him. It’s a glorious and sexy moment during a song that transforms his father’s words of abuse to express selflessness. An encore of all the affection at work in the film. F
or a Pride party, I once dressed up as Kelly from the San Junipero episode of Black Mirror. Clad in purple, curls, and pearls, everybody thought I was Prince – an honorable mistake I’ll accept. That other Gen-Zers like me were quick to identify Prince’s image of queer sexuality and flair speaks to Purple Rain’s legacy among a youth ecstatic to honor the trailblazers of the past. Queer celebration is often realized within music and the places that house such worship: clubs or house parties that encourage bodies to jostle against each other in melodic rapture. That this imagery of the eighties and the memorable weirdness of Prince was responsible for my sexual awakening is not only a testament to the everlasting allure of androgyny but also the gender euphoria we can reach once music reminds us that a body does not have to be a prison, but a vessel for glorious movement.
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