The 4th Man is Verhoeven's last Dutch-language film before he hit Hollywood, and it's a total wild ride. A deliriously stylish, psychosexual fever dream that blends Catholic guilt, homoerotic vibes, Hitchcockian suspense, and full-on weirdness into one spiked cocktail. Think De Palma on communion wine.
It follows Gerard, a booze-soaked, guilt-ridden writer who gets together with Christine, a mysterious widow whose lovers keep turning up dead. But the real joy isn't in the twists — it's how Verhoeven plays with religion, lust, and full-blown hallucination to properly scramble your brain.
The performances go big (Jeroen Krabbé oozes tortured flair), and the visuals — veering from artsy to gloriously trashy — are a total feast. This is cinema as psychosexual theatre: campy, classy, and completely unhinged. Verhoeven dares you to take noir seriously again. If you like your thrillers sexy, strange, and steeped in sacrilege, this one's divine.