The time­less flu­id­i­ty and androg­y­ny of Pur­ple Rain

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. 

For 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.