While leisurely rewatching the director’s cut of the erotic thriller "Color of Night" by the now-deceased Richard Rush (whose passing in 2021 went largely unnoticed by the broader film community, unlike the death of Monte Hellman, another cult director who received obituaries in major outlets like The Guardian and tributes from Quentin Tarantino for his influence on "Reservoir Dogs"), I once again convince myself that this film stands as the finest American epigone of the Italian giallo genre. Released in 1994, "Color of Night" masterfully transplants the giallo’s hallmarks—mysterious murders, psychological intrigue, erotic tension, and outlandish plot twists—onto Hollywood soil, but with a distinctly American flair that amps up the sensationalism while poking fun at deeper themes.

Richard Rush, a director whose career spanned from the countercultural vibes of the 1960s and 1970s (with films like "The Stunt Man" earning him critical acclaim and Oscar nominations) to this mid-90s erotic escapade, didn’t indulge the audience in true aesthetic refinement. Where Brian De Palma, in films like "Dressed to Kill" or "Body Double," often lost himself in stylistic excesses—elaborate camera work, Hitchcockian homages, and a voyeuristic elegance that bordered on pretension—Rush kept things grounded in raw, unapologetic pulp. He cranked the eroticism to eleven, turning the film into a steamy showcase that earned it notoriety for what Maxim magazine later dubbed the best sex scene in film history (a pool encounter between Bruce Willis and Jane March that’s as explicit as it is absurd). The plot spirals into near-maximum idiocy: Dr. Bill Capa (Willis), a psychologist traumatized by a patient’s suicide, develops color blindness to red and flees to Los Angeles, only to get entangled in a therapy group where murders abound, and everyone seems suspect. The twists involve gender dysphoria, incestuous trauma, and a killer sibling dynamic that feels ripped from the pages of a lurid paperback novel.

Honestly, Rush delivers a savage kick to psychoanalysis with otherworldly black humor. The therapy sessions are parodies of Freudian excess—patients with over-the-top disorders (a nymphomaniac kleptomaniac, an OCD-riddled artist, a suicidal ex-cop) spill their guts in ways that mock the profession’s pretensions. Capa’s own breakdown, symbolized by his inability to see red (a metaphor for repressed passion or violence), underscores how therapy often fails spectacularly. Rush, who battled producers over the final cut (leading to his heart attack and a compromised release), infuses the narrative with a cynical wit that lampoons the "talking cure" and its devotees, portraying shrinks as hapless enablers of chaos rather than saviors.

If "Color of Night" were released today, in our era of heightened sensitivity, it would face a torrent of backlash. The film’s handling of transgender themes—through the character of Richie, revealed to be Rose in disguise, stemming from familial abuse and forced identity—has been criticized in retrospective analyses as transphobic, reducing gender fluidity to a plot device for shock value. Blogs and forums like Some Came Running have noted Rush’s recurring issues with trans representation (echoed in his earlier "Getting Straight"). Add to that the fiery eroticism teetering on the edge of bad taste: extended nudity, BDSM undertones, and a narrative that objectifies its female lead. In a post-#MeToo world, where films like "Promising Young Woman" dissect toxic masculinity with nuance, "Color of Night" would be lambasted for its exploitative gaze. Yet, this very audacity is what makes it a giallo heir—Italian masters like Dario Argento or Mario Bava thrived on blending horror, sex, and absurdity without apology, as seen in "Tenebrae" or "Blood and Black Lace," which influenced Rush’s murder mystery structure.

The production history itself reads like a thriller. With a $40 million budget, the film starred Bruce Willis at his post-"Die Hard" peak, fresh off "Pulp Fiction," and Jane March, the enigmatic star of "The Lover." Scott Bakula, Brad Dourif, and Lance Henriksen rounded out a solid ensemble. But clashes between Rush and producer Andrew Vajna led to multiple versions: the theatrical R-rated cut bombed at the box office ($19.7 million domestic against expectations), earning Razzie nominations for Worst Picture and Worst Actor (Willis won for this and "North"). Critics like Roger Ebert called it "goofy" and absurd, while Janet Maslin found it "memorably bizarre." The director’s cut, restored on video, adds depth to the erotic scenes and psychological layers, making it the preferred version for fans.

Despite its flaws, "Color of Night" endures as a cult gem. Its giallo DNA shines in the whodunit setup: anonymous killers, gloved hands (metaphorically, through psychological masks), and a finale drenched in melodrama. Movie borrows from Argento’s visual flair and Bava’s atmospheric tension, but Americanizes it with Hollywood stars and bigger budgets. Rush’s death in April 2021, at age 91, barely registered—a quiet end for a man who once sued for control of his films—while Hellman, dying days later, was hailed for "Two-Lane Blacktop." Perhaps it’s fitting; Rush’s work, like "Color of Night," thrives in obscurity, beloved by those who appreciate its unhinged charm.

Expanding on the plot for deeper insight: Capa’s journey begins with Michelle’s graphic suicide, splattering red blood he can’t perceive, setting a tone of denial. In LA, he inherits Bob Moore’s group: Clark (Dourif, channeling rage), Sondra (Lesley Ann Warren, seductive and sticky-fingered), Buck (Henriksen, brooding), Casey (Kevin J. O’Connor, artistic torment), and Richie.

Rose’s enigmatic appearances—seducing Capa in shadows—build erotic suspense, giallo-style. The murders escalate: stabbings, drownings, all tied to past abuse by a predatory psychiatrist. The reveal—Dale as the killer, forcing his sister into multiple personas after their brother’s suicide—twists the knife on family trauma, mocking therapy’s inability to heal deep scars.

Rush’s black humor peaks in scenes like the group sessions, where confessions devolve into farce, or Capa’s color blindness as a punchline to his impotence. Compared to De Palma’s operatic style, Rush is blunt: no split-screens or slow-motion; just raw desire and idiocy. The score by Dominic Frontiere adds a sleazy jazz vibe, echoing giallo soundtracks. In today’s climate, the transphobia critique is valid—Richie’s portrayal reinforces harmful tropes of deception and mental illness linked to gender nonconformity. Yet, for 1994, it pushed boundaries, albeit clumsily. The eroticism, too, borders on foul: March’s nudity is frequent, but empowering in her agency? Debatable. Still, it outdoes many contemporaries in sheer boldness.

Public rehabilitation? Unlikely. Rotten Tomatoes sits at 22%, Metacritic at 36/100. But as a heartwarming cult object, "Color of Night" remains delightful. Its campy thrills, Willis’s deadpan delivery, and March’s magnetic presence make rewatches rewarding. In a sea of sanitized blockbusters, it reminds us of cinema’s wild side—erotic, idiotic, and unrepentantly fun. Rush may have faded quietly, but his film burns bright for those who see its true colors.