Classic Review: Dangerous Liaisons

Released in 1988 and directed by Stephen Frears, this adaptation of the 18th-century French epistolary novel Les Liaisons Dangereuses is the cinematic equivalent of a poison-dipped love letter. It is a masterclass in elegance, performance, and moral rot. Every frame gleams with opulence, and yet underneath the velvet, lace, and candlelight lies something deeply unsettling: people who destroy others for pleasure—and are so good at it, we can’t look away.

The plot is a spider’s web of manipulation. The Vicomte de Valmont (John Malkovich) is a charming rake with a soul made of smoke. He has seduced everything worth touching—and most things that weren’t. His occasional co-conspirator (and frequent emotional adversary) is the Marquise de Merteuil, played by Glenn Close with such exquisite calculation that she might as well have invented the art of weaponized stillness.

Merteuil has a grudge: a young ingénue, Cécile (played by Uma Thurman), is about to marry a man Merteuil once loved—and she wants the girl ruined before the wedding. Who better to enlist than Valmont? But Valmont has other plans. He has his eye on Madame de Tourvel (Michelle Pfeiffer), a deeply religious married woman known for her virtue.

What follows is not just seduction, but a campaign. It’s a war of words, gestures, and veiled threats. It’s slow—deliciously slow. Like watching a chess game between serpents.

Let’s start where the evil lives: Malkovich and Close.

This is not Malkovich the winking meta-presence from Being John Malkovich or the brooding madman of Opus (ugh). This is Malkovich on his A-game—his dangerous game. His Valmont is not traditionally handsome. He doesn’t need to be. His seductions are not about beauty. They are about power. About control. About being seen, wanted, needed, and then cruelly abandoning the very desire he inflames.

He delivers his lines like a knife slid under silk—never shouting, never rushing. And in that restraint, we feel the full gravity of his malice.

Then there’s Glenn Close, who embodies ambition, bitterness, and suppressed fury. She smiles like a blade. Every scene with her is a masterclass in microexpression. Watch her eyes during Valmont’s triumphs. Watch her mouth during his defeats. She is equal parts goddess and general, crafting every manipulation as if it were embroidery.

Together, Malkovich and Close create the kind of screen chemistry that scorches. Not in a romantic way—but in the way of fire meeting oil. When they speak, the rest of the world dims. They are the sun and moon of this world, casting everyone else in shadow—and they know it.

Michelle Pfeiffer gives a stunning performance as Madame de Tourvel, the film’s moral center. Her decline from dignity to devastation is gut-wrenching—made even more tragic by how genuinely she loves Valmont. When her tears come, they’re not just about heartbreak. They’re about realizing the world is far crueler than she imagined—and she was used as a stepping stone in someone else’s game.

Uma Thurman as Cécile is a revelation in her youth and vulnerability. There’s a scene with her and Valmont that is nearly unwatchable in its quiet horror—made worse by the fact that she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening. It’s a brutal reminder of how innocence becomes cannon fodder in the games of the powerful.

Even Keanu Reeves (yes, that Keanu) shows up in a small role as Cécile’s young music tutor, and while he’s clearly still finding his footing as an actor, his sincerity gives the role a necessary heartbeat. His character is not complex—but his goodness provides a foil to the surrounding decay.

Christopher Hampton’s screenplay, adapted from his own stage play, is poetry in corset form. It maintains the structure and musicality of 18th-century letters while never feeling stiff or self-indulgent. Every word is chosen. Every sentence is laced with double meaning.

“When one woman strikes at the heart of another, she seldom misses.”

The score by George Fenton is understated and haunting. It doesn’t tell you how to feel—it lets the actors do that. It simply reminds you that you are in a gilded cage, and the door is slowly closing.

What makes Dangerous Liaisons endure is not just the scandal or the spectacle—it’s the consequences. These people aren’t villains in a farce. They pay for what they’ve done. And watching them unravel is as compelling as watching them scheme.

There’s a moment—no spoilers—where Merteuil walks into an opera house, painted and powdered and dressed like victory itself. But her expression cracks. And in that tiny shift, Glenn Close delivers one of the most devastating portrayals of loss ever captured on film. No screams. No breakdown. Just a woman who realizes the only person she ever trusted has destroyed her—and that the game she mastered is the one that finally devoured her.

We live in a world of image-making, revenge stories, and power plays. Dangerous Liaisons may be set in 18th-century France, but its themes are as relevant now as ever:

• Manipulation disguised as romance

• The illusion of control

• The price of using people as pawns