Paul Schrader, a director whose name has become synonymous with anguished existential dramas, unveiled American Gigolo in 1980—a film that, despite turning 45, remains provocative, multifaceted, and strikingly relevant. Produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, the movie is a unique blend of melodrama, erotic thriller, and crime drama, steeped in the aesthetics of glamour and decadence. It serves as a mirror to a transitional period in American culture—from the unrestrained hedonism of the 1970s to the pragmatic yet equally contradictory 1980s, where sex, money, and status became not just attributes of success but ends in themselves. From its opening frames, American Gigolo immerses the viewer in the world of Julian Kaye, played by a young Richard Gere, whose charisma and physical allure form the narrative’s centerpiece. Julian is a gigolo, a professional seducer whose life revolves around fulfilling the desires of wealthy female clients. His Armani wardrobe, tailored to his toned physique, transforms him into a walking emblem of consumerist culture, where appearance and style eclipse inner substance. Schrader films Gere with an almost fetishistic obsession: the camera glides over his body, capturing every curve and contour, turning Julian into an object of desire. This objectification simultaneously glorifies and degrades its protagonist, rendering him both predator and prey. Here lies one of the film’s central paradoxes: Julian, heterosexual by nature and profession, is placed at the heart of a homoerotic gaze. Schrader’s camera seems less concerned with following his actions than with admiring him, as if he were a work of art crafted for adoration. In this sense, American Gigolo anticipates contemporary discussions about the “male gaze” and its inversion. The viewer, regardless of gender, becomes complicit in this process, making the film both alluring and discomfiting. In recent years, amid revisionist sentiments, some critics have accused the film of homophobia, pointing to its use of homoerotic motifs while shying away from explicitly acknowledging their significance, keeping Julian firmly within a heteronormative identity. This critique may not be entirely fair given the context of its time, but it underscores the complexity of the film’s reception in the 21st century. The comparison to John Schlesinger’s Midnight Cowboy is inevitable. If Jon Voight’s Joe Buck was a naive dreamer caught in the harsh realities of New York, Julian Kaye is his more refined, commercialized counterpart, perfectly suited to 1980s Los Angeles. Both films explore the theme of prostitution, but while Midnight Cowboy was steeped in existential despair and social realism, American Gigolo is a glossy fantasy where even the darkness of the criminal underworld feels aesthetically polished. Giorgio Moroder’s pulsating synth soundtrack amplifies this sense of artifice while making the film irresistibly captivating. The music becomes another layer of glamour enveloping Julian, turning his life into a performance. Yet beneath this outward splendor lies a profound melancholy. Despite his confidence and charisma, Julian is a prisoner of his own role. His profession, his body, his style—all are not truly his but serve the interests of others. He is a commodity, expensive and coveted, but a commodity nonetheless. This aspect of the film resonates with the critique of capitalism that would become more explicit in Oliver Stone’s works, such as Wall Street (1987). While Stone directly condemns the greed and amorality of the financial world, Schrader does so more subtly, through the lens of personal drama. Julian embodies the American Dream taken to an absurd extreme: he has reached the pinnacle of success in his niche, but that pinnacle proves hollow. Julian’s relationship with Michelle Stratton (Lauren Hutton) adds another layer of complexity. Michelle, a senator’s wife, falls in love with Julian, and her willingness to sacrifice everything for him feels both romantic and tragic. In the context of second-wave feminism, which was gaining momentum in the 1980s, her self-sacrifice seems almost anachronistic. She is ready to abandon her status, reputation, and safety for a man who, essentially, lives off women like her. This creates yet another paradox: Julian, the object of desire, becomes the catalyst for the destruction of a woman who sees in him something more than a beautiful shell. Schrader offers no clear answers about who is the victim and who the predator, leaving viewers to ponder the nature of love, dependency, and power. The crime subplot, involving the murder of one of Julian’s clients, heightens the sense of his vulnerability. Accustomed to controlling situations, he suddenly finds himself under suspicion, and his perfect world begins to crumble. This plot twist transforms American Gigolo into an erotic thriller, where tension arises not only from sexual energy but also from the threat of physical retribution. Schrader masterfully plays with genre conventions, balancing glamour and menace, desire and danger. The film also captures cultural shifts in American society at the turn of the decade. The 1980s, with their Reaganomics, cult of individualism, and pursuit of material success, loom on the horizon. American Gigolo foreshadows this era, showing how sex and style become currencies of the new age. Yet, unlike later films such as Fatal Attraction (1987) or Basic Instinct (1992), which exploit sexuality more overtly, American Gigolo retains a certain restraint. Even in its most explicit scenes, it remains elegant, almost cold, which makes it all the more provocative. The film’s visual style deserves special mention. John Bailey’s cinematography transforms Los Angeles into a glittering yet desolate metropolis, where skyscrapers and palm trees form a backdrop for the characters’ loneliness. The interiors, filled with glass, chrome, and leather, underscore the sterility of Julian’s world. His apartment, with its minimalist design and expensive furnishings, becomes another metaphor for his life: beautiful but soulless. American Gigolo remains a film that defies easy classification. It is both a hymn to and a critique of consumerist culture, a portrait of a man who is simultaneously free and shackled, an exploration of love and betrayal in a world where everything has a price. True to his style, Schrader offers no simple answers, leaving viewers with a sense of unease but also a desire to revisit the film time and again. Perhaps it is in this ambiguity that its enduring power lies.