After three features that explored lonely men’s attempts to understand their own frustrations and existences, Paul Schrader decided to direct an altogethter differet project. Unlike his previous work, whose screenplays Schrader wrote and which relied heavily on realist themes and scenarios, Cat People plays in the realm of myth and magic. In Cat People, realism is thrown out the window in the opening sequence, which depicts an ancient civilization set amidst endless sand and swirling winds, a land littered with human remains, where black panthers are worshipped through virginal sacrifices. Schrader uses a matching dissolve to transport us from this ancient land to the present day, connecting the two settings through the woman sacrificed to the big cat and her ancestor, our heroine Irena, whose feline qualities accentuate her wide-eyed naivete and curiosity. She arrives in New Orleans to meet her estranged brother, and it becomes immediately clear that the city’s unusual architectural and cultural mixture, as well as its voodoo legacy, lend an extra dimension of eeriness to the story. Something about this place feel off-kilter and unusual to Irena, which is both attractive and dangerous. It is through her exploration of the relationship between humans and animals, as well as eroticism and violence, that the focus of the prologue comes into play. Additionally, the theme of mythical stories and magical interactions between animals and humans interests Schrader; in particular, the need for sexual prowess and its requirements and consequences.

Initially, Irena has our full sympathy since she appears to be everything she claims. As the story progresses, it becomes clear that she possesses secrets she is not aware of and must confront them not only to survive, but also to make sense of her own nature and its potential consequences. From the beginning, her brother Paul is aware of, and rather duplicitious about, his situation, although Malcolm McDowell’s slimy charm and deceitful ease make him more readily detestable. He understands the rules by which he must play, while Irena is at first not even aware there are rules. It is when she meets zoo curator Oliver, played by John Heard, who is as docile and considerate as Paul is not, that she begins to understand there are unintended consequences to her attraction and death is a given, not an option. Nastassja Kinski’s sweetness and vulnerability fits Irena’s initial doe-eyed intrigue and beguile, but her talent as an actress shows when she is able to develop her character into more than just a black panther. As the film progresses, her introductory look of an Audrey Hepburn-like waif becomes a lethal, dominating animal-human hybrid which seems to invokes Ingrid Bergman’s Scandinavian mystique. Even Paul is not prepared for his sister’s overt transformation.

The exact nature of the relationship between Irena and her brother is never fully investigated, although Paul eventually explains their origins in order to convince her to forget Oliver the zookeeper. Paul is clearly the more malevolent and cunning of the two, but one cannot help but wonder if these are the only two werecats in the world and, if so, why they are so different in personality. Furthermore, why were they separated for the majority of their childhoods and why does Irena have so little memory of her unusual roots? Many elements of the story are left unexplained, but Schrader’s direction of the characters’ mythical origins roots the film in its own construct of reality. Plot is less important here than mood or tone, and without the pressure of being solely responsible for the screenplay, Schrader is free to experiment visually and attempt some daring camera work and editing tricks to keep the audience enraptured. Perhaps the most striking of these techniques is the frequent use of tracking shots, with the camera following characters up and down stairs, through corridors, and across terrains of forests and deserts. This is done to emphasize the setting as much as the drama, and as the visuals dominate the screen, Schrader is able to draw us further into this bizarre but spellbinding universe.

Ultimately, Cat People shows Schrader’s deliberate attempts to not be categorized as a particular genre director, to illustrate a variation on the traditional cinematic themes of myth and magic, and to subvert an old-fashioned type of movie with a modernist sense of sexual aggression and bloody consequences. In a sense, this is a filmic response to the ever-burgeoning subgenres of slasher and serial killer horror movie series that dominated much of the box office in the early 1980s. Schrader’s response to such movies is an emphasis of what may be the two ultimate human urges: sex and violence. Psychologically, Cat People takes these truisms to their logical extremes, creating a fascinating tale of how closely related to the animal kingdom humans are and the thin veneer of civilization that prevents these two elements from hybridizing. Yet, while sex and violence remain the heart of this story, Schrader’s most continual theme of loneliness emerges through Irena’s inability to create a true, lasting bond with the man she cares for. In the end, despite her best efforts, her animalistic nature conquers and the sacrifices both make to ensure they can be together demonstrates how isolation will haunt them forever. Love was and remains within their grasp, but forces of nature prevent it from blossoming and instead, like a panther’s heartbeat, it lays just beneath the surface, continuously reminiscent of the ever-delicate separation between man and beast.