The Fifth Element (1997): Campy Cosmic Mayhem and the Pulp Heart of Space Opera

Amid flying cars, multipass quips, and a villain who chews scenery like gum, Luc Besson’s riotous vision blasts space opera into neon absurdity.

In the sprawling chaos of 23rd-century New York, where skyscrapers pierce polluted skies and alien divas belt operatic arias, The Fifth Element erupts as a fever dream of camp excess fused with cosmic stakes. Luc Besson’s 1997 blockbuster, often dismissed as mere popcorn spectacle, harbours a subversive pulse: a space opera that revels in its own ridiculousness while flirting with the abyss of universal annihilation. This analysis peels back the garish layers to uncover how its heightened artifice amplifies themes of divinity, corporate villainy, and human insignificance against an encroaching void.

  • Unpacking the film’s outrageous visual language, from Moebius-inspired designs to Chris Tucker’s flamboyant Ruby Rhod, as deliberate camp that heightens cosmic dread.
  • Exploring Leeloo’s resurrection as a bridge between body worship and technological hubris, echoing body horror tropes in a comedic sheen.
  • Tracing Besson’s pulp influences and the film’s enduring legacy in skewing sci-fi formulas toward joyful irreverence amid apocalyptic threats.

Hyperactive Skies: The Frenetic World-Building of Future Manhattan

Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element catapults viewers into a 2263 New York so vertically stacked it defies gravity, with traffic-clogged skies buzzing like angry hornets. Flying taxis dart between endless towers, their pilots barking “multipass” at harried border agents, while Egyptian priests intone ancient prophecies amid bureaucratic indifference. This opening salvo sets the tone: a universe where the mundane grinds against the mythic, corporate overlords peddle weapons of mass destruction, and a perfect being must be pieced together from cosmic DNA. The narrative kicks off with the Mondoshawan, hulking armoured guardians from a distant planet, arriving on prehistoric Earth to entrust four elemental stones to the priest Vito Cornelius. Fast-forward five millennia, and their ship crashes into a luxury liner, scattering the stones and necessitating the reconstruction of the fifth element: Leeloo, a fiery orange-haired goddess played with wide-eyed ferocity by Milla Jovovich.

Bruce Willis’s Korben Dallas, a grizzled ex-special forces taxi driver nursing a broken nose and a penchant for Marlboros, becomes the unlikely hero when Leeloo tumbles into his cab, naked and superhumanly agile. Their odyssey spirals through opulent hotels, Zorg’s gleaming megacorp headquarters, and a cruise liner turned interstellar party barge. Gary Oldman’s Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg, a cybernetically enhanced tycoon with a penchant for exploding toys and mangy alien pets, schemes to unleash the Great Evil, a pulsating planetary mass of flame and malice that devours worlds every five thousand years. Chris Tucker’s Ruby Rhod, a Z-list DJ with gravity-defying hair and falsetto rants, steals scenes as Korben’s reluctant ally, while Ian Holm’s Cornelius provides quiet gravitas amid the frenzy.

Production lore swirls around this kinetic setup. Besson conceived the story at age 16, scribbling notes during a hospital stay, and spent years refining it with French comic legend Jean “Moebius” Giraud, whose sleek, intricate designs birthed the film’s iconic aesthetic: ribbed skyscrapers evoking organic machinery, hovercraft with serpentine curves, and aliens blending humanoid and beastly traits. Budgeted at a then-astronomical $90 million, much went to practical sets built in London’s Pinewood Studios, where a massive New York street consumed soundstages. Challenges abounded: Willis clashed with Besson over creative control, Jovovich endured grueling physical training, and Tucker’s improvisations tested patience. Yet these tensions forged a film that feels alive, its campy vigour masking deeper anxieties about technology’s overreach.

The plot hurtles toward climax on Fhloston Paradise, a resort planet where Diva Plavalaguna’s operatic performance hides the stones. Zorg’s Mangalore henchmen stage a bloody heist, Leeloo uncovers the elemental ritual, and Korben utters the divine word “Supreme Being: multipass!” to activate her powers. As the Great Evil looms, a wall of fire scorching star systems, Leeloo’s rage at humanity’s wars nearly dooms all, until Korben’s kiss reignites her love for life. The stones converge, blasting the beast into oblivion, leaving a triumphant coda of domestic bliss in Korben’s apartment. This synthesis of ancient myth and pulp adventure builds on operatic traditions like Flash Gordon serials and Barbarella, but injects French flair, transforming schlock into symphony.

Zorg’s Labyrinth: Corporate Greed as Technological Terror

Gary Oldman’s Zorg stands as the film’s camp pinnacle, a villain whose every line drips with theatrical venom. Decked in white suits stained by incompetence, he converses with a grotesque alien parasite via a briefcase phone, promising “the stones” while deploying swarms of biomechanical “Zorglings” that scuttle like metallic insects. His boardroom monologues rail against life’s inefficiencies, embodying a technological terror where flesh yields to chrome. This caricature amplifies sci-fi horror’s corporate bogeymen, akin to Alien’s Weyland-Yutani, but laced with absurd humour: his gadgets backfire spectacularly, from self-destructing guns to a pet that bites his hand.

Besson’s script skewers capitalism’s excesses through Zorg’s empire, a nexus of arms dealing and interstellar exploitation. The Mangalores, blue-skinned mercenaries snubbed by Zorg, embody outsourced rage, their raid on the Diva a chaotic ballet of laser fire and pratfalls. Such sequences revel in camp’s deliberate bad taste, where violence erupts in primary colours and overacted agony. Critics often overlook how this excess underscores cosmic stakes: Zorg unwittingly aids the Evil by supplying it weapons, mirroring real-world arms races that flirt with apocalypse. Production notes reveal Oldman’s commitment; he drew from Klaus Kinski’s mania, layering prosthetics and gadgets to create a figure both repulsive and magnetic.

Leeloo’s arc intersects this menace profoundly. Rebuilt in a high-tech lab from a single bone, her flawless body—orange hair, perfect skin, multipurpose limbs—evokes body horror’s violation. Multi-pass scans reveal her as the ultimate weapon, her bones multiplying exponentially, a nod to viral proliferation in films like The Thing. Yet Besson subverts dread with camp: her first words are a perfect English sentence, learned via computer, spouting “boom” with childlike glee. This fusion of technological resurrection and divine innocence probes autonomy’s erosion, where corporate science plays god amid existential voids.

Neon Flesh and Divine Fire: Leeloo’s Body as Cosmic Catalyst

Milla Jovovich’s Leeloo transcends eye candy; her lithe form, engineered perfection, becomes a vessel for elemental fury. Vent crawling through vents, leaping skyscrapers, and dismantling foes with bone-disintegrating kicks, she embodies superhuman grace laced with vulnerability. A pivotal scene in Korben’s shower, multipass clutched like a talisman, blends eroticism and innocence, her wide eyes reflecting a soul adrift in alien flesh. Besson’s camera lingers on her reconstruction, flesh knitting in vats, evoking Frankensteinian unease beneath the gloss.

The film’s special effects warrant a subheading of awe. eschewing heavy CGI for practical wizardry, teams at London’s effects houses crafted the Evil’s roiling mass from miniatures and composites, its fiery maw consuming models in controlled blazes. Moebius’s concepts materialised in costumes by Jean-Paul Gaultier—rubberised vests, feathered headdresses—while the Diva’s alien opera fused Lucia di Lammermoor with electronic beats, her translucent skin achieved via silicone appliances. ILM contributed digital cleanup, but the tactile quality endures, grounding camp in tangible spectacle. Legacy-wise, these techniques influenced The Matrix‘s wire-fu and Guardians of the Galaxy‘s retro-futurism.

Thematically, The Fifth Element grapples with isolation’s chill. Korben’s solitary life, Ruby’s performative persona, Cornelius’s futile faith—all orbit Leeloo’s light. Her near-suicide, scanning war footage in horror, confronts humanity’s self-destruction, a cosmic indictment softened by love’s simplicity. This echoes Lovecraftian insignificance, the Evil as indifferent devourer, yet camp defuses terror: Ruby’s “bzzzzz!” interruptions and Zorg’s pratfalls render apocalypse a farce.

Pulp Echoes: From Serials to Stellar Subversion

Besson’s opus nods to space opera forebears—Buck Rogers comics, Metropolis‘s class wars—while carving camp distinction. Influences abound: French bande dessinée’s vibrant panels, 1970s Eurocomics’ erotic futurism. Historical context places it post-Star Wars, craving whimsy amid grimdark like Blade Runner. Its 1997 release, bridging analogue effects and digital dawn, captures transition’s thrill.

Iconic scenes amplify this: the taxi chase, vehicles weaving through verticality, Korben’s quips punctuating peril; Fhloston’s zero-G shootout, bodies tumbling in balletic carnage. Mise-en-scène shines: saturated blues and oranges bathe sets, lighting carving shadows on Leeloo’s form, composition framing Korben against starry voids. Performances elevate camp—Willis’s deadpan anchors excess, Jovovich’s physicality mesmerises, Oldman’s histrionics delight.

Influence ripples wide: parodies in Spaceballs echoes, homages in Jupiter Ascending. Cult status grew via home video, memes (“multipass!”), soundtracks. Production hurdles—studio meddling, reshoots—yielded triumph, grossing $363 million, cementing Besson’s Hollywood leap.

Director in the Spotlight

Luc Besson, born 18 March 1959 in Paris to scuba-diving parents who roamed Europe and the Pacific, grew up devouring comics, films, and adventure novels in isolated outposts like the Yugoslav coast. Dyslexic and asthmatic, he channelled energy into storytelling, scripting The Fifth Element at 16 after a motorcycle crash. Dropping out of school, he self-taught filmmaking, debuting with post-apocalyptic Le Dernier Combat (1983), a dialogue-free triumph shot on 35mm for peanuts. Breakthrough came with Subway (1985), a stylish underground odyssey starring Isabelle Adjani and Christopher Lambert, blending noir and new wave.

The Big Blue (1988), his passion project on free divers, flopped initially but cult-loved for Roselyne Bachelot’s score. La Femme Nikita (1990) exploded, its hitwoman tale spawning remakes; Besson’s EuropaCorp empire followed. Léon: The Professional (1994) paired Jean Reno with pint-sized Natalie Portman in a controversial mentor bond, grossing huge despite cuts. The Fifth Element marked his English-language pivot, followed by The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc (1999), Wasabi (2001), Danny the Dog (2005) aka Unleashed with Jet Li, The Transporter series (producing), Lucy (2014) starring Scarlett Johansson as a super-evolved woman, Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017) adapting his beloved comics, and Dogman (2018). Influences span Kurosawa, Leone, and Godard; married five times, including to Jovovich (1997-1999), he fathers five children and champions visual poetry over plot.

Actor in the Spotlight

Gary Oldman, born 21 January 1958 in New Cross, London, to a former sailor father and Welsh homemaker, endured a fractured home marked by his father’s alcoholism and departure at age seven. Theatre beckoned via Rose Bruford College, where he honed intensity in punk-infused roles like Sid Vicious in Sid and Nancy (1986), earning acclaim for raw volatility. Alex Cox’s biopic launched him, followed by Prick Up Your Ears (1987) as playwright Joe Orton.

Hollywood beckoned with Chattahoochee (1989), but JFK (1991) as Lee Harvey Oswald sealed versatility. Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) showcased metamorphosis from foppish to feral; True Romance (1993) his cocaine-fueled Drexl. Immortal Beloved (1994) as Beethoven, The Professional (1994) as Stansfield, The Fifth Element (1997) as manic Zorg—his scenery-chewing zenith. Air Force One (1997), Lost in Space (1998), An Ideal Husband (1999), The Contender (2000) Emmy-winning. Hannibal (2001) as Mason Verger, The Dark Knight trilogy (2008-2012) as Jim Gordon, Oscar for Darkest Hour (2017) as Churchill. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Mank (2020), producing via Double El and voicing in Harry Potter (Sirius Black, 2004-2007), Planet 51. Knighted 2018, married five times, father of four, Oldman’s chameleon craft spans accents, ages, evils.

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Bibliography

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Booker, M. K. (2006) From Box Office to Ballot Box: The American Political Film. Praeger, pp. 145-162.

Corliss, R. (1997) ‘The Fifth Element: Luc Besson’s Candy-Colored Space Opera’, Time, 23 June. Available at: http://content.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,986784,00.html (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Giraud, J. (Moebius) (1997) The Fifth Element: Storyboards and Concepts. Humanoids Publishing.

Huddleston, T. (2017) ‘Luc Besson: The Visual Poet of French Cinema’, Sight & Sound, British Film Institute, 27(5), pp. 34-39.

Mathijs, E. and Mendik, X. (eds.) (2011) The Cult Film Reader. Open University Press, pp. 289-297.

Oldman, G. (2008) Interviewed by Empire Magazine for ‘Gary Oldman on Zorg and Beyond’. Available at: https://www.empireonline.com/interviews/gary-oldman/ (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Telotte, J. P. (2001) Science Fiction Film. Cambridge University Press, pp. 178-195.

Vanderbilt, M. (1997) ‘The Art of Moebius in The Fifth Element’, Wired, 5(6). Available at: https://www.wired.com/1997/06/moebius/ (Accessed: 15 October 2023).