Joe Eszterhas Is Back. And He Brought a Flamethrower.
Somewhere in the din of late-career comebacks and streaming-era IP strip-mining, this one stopped me mid-scroll: Joe Eszterhas—yes, that Joe—is writing a new Basic Instinct. And it's being labeled “anti-woke.”
Now, before you run for the bunker or the bourbon, let's take a breath.
This isn't just another legacy sequel, and Eszterhas isn't some studio-rehabbed relic pulled out for nostalgia points. He's 80 years old. He hasn't written a feature since Betrayed by the industry, the tabloids, and, quite possibly, himself. And yet, he just sold a spec script to Amazon MGM's revived United Artists banner—for $2 million upfront, with another $2M on the line if the film goes into production. According to The Wrap, it's the biggest spec sale of the year.
Let that sink in. In an era where even a halfway decent original script gets buried under capes and content algorithms, Eszterhas walks back in with a typewriter full of rage and lands one of the most lucrative deals in years.
Now that's instinct.
The Return of the Last Provocateur
If you weren't around in the early '90s—or if your idea of controversy starts and ends with a Rotten Tomatoes score—you might not grasp what a seismic figure Eszterhas once was. This is the man who gave us Flashdance, Jagged Edge, Showgirls, and, of course, Basic Instinct—the last of which launched a thousand college lectures and at least two divorces I know of.
Back then, he was a lightning rod. Critics called him trashy. Feminists called him dangerous. The box office called him rich. He made studios a fortune and burned just as many bridges.
And then he vanished.
After a disastrous attempt to work with Mel Gibson on The Maccabees—a project that ended in bitter public acrimony—he faded into the shadows. Writing memoirs. Nursing grudges. Waiting, perhaps, for the culture to catch up—or implode.
Now he's back. And he's not writing for the current climate. He's writing against it.
“Anti-Woke”? Depends Who's Watching.
It's tempting to roll your eyes at the label. “Anti-woke” could mean anything from slightly edgy to full-blown Fox News fever dream. But if you know Eszterhas, you know the man doesn't do subtle.
This isn't someone gently pushing back on sensitivity readers. This is someone who once wrote a scene where Sharon Stone's character stabs a man mid-orgasm, then lights a cigarette like it's foreplay.
So what does “anti-woke” mean in this context? According to unnamed sources quoted by The Wrap, the reboot leans hard into the “lurid tone” of the original. Translation: sex, manipulation, and zero apologies. No hashtags. No disclaimers.
If anything, it sounds like Eszterhas is writing the film the first one was accused of being. That's either exhilarating or exhausting, depending on your tolerance for provocation.
The Return of Catherine Tramell?
Here's where things get interesting—Sharon Stone might be circling a return.
Now, I'd usually groan at the idea of dragging icons out of retirement for a few shots of meta-irony. But Stone's Catherine Tramell was never just a femme fatale. She was the whole goddamn genre, distilled into one icy gaze and that leg-crossing scene seared into VHS history.
Stone, 66 now, has nothing to prove. If she returns, it'll be on her terms. And if Eszterhas has written her anything worth saying, we may get a sequel that isn't just louder—but smarter. More layered. Or at least more honest about its own insanity.
Would Paul Verhoeven return to direct? He's 83. But if he does, well—buy your ticket now. That man still shoots sex and violence with the glee of a heretic at a church raffle.
A Bet on Lust in the Algorithm Age
Amazon isn't exactly known for risqué cinema. Which is what makes this move so curious. Stuber's new United Artists banner isn't just dipping a toe into controversial waters—it's doing a cannonball.
We've spent a decade sterilizing our screens. Sex has become subtext. Desire gets buried under digital filters and mood lighting. Meanwhile, films like Saltburn are praised for being “boundary-pushing” because someone pees in a tub.
Eszterhas doesn't push boundaries. He breaks them—then rolls around in the debris.
Final Shot
I don't know if this reboot will work. It could implode on arrival. It could be as tone-deaf as it is defiant. But I'll tell you this: I'd rather watch one writer swing wildly than 50 executives aim for mediocrity.
And if the film ends up being awful? At least it'll be interesting awful.
Which is more than I can say for 90% of what hits my inbox these days.