Where Did Dangerous Liaisons Film Its Iconic Ballroom Scene?

I picked up 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses' after watching 'Dangerous Liaisons' and was hit by how differently the story talks to you. The novel is an epistolary maze — everything comes through letters, so characters reveal themselves in private voices. That means the book feels like overhearing secrets: motivations are murky, hypocrisy is layered, and we get conflicting perspectives that force you to piece together the truth. The film, by contrast, simplifies that mosaic into a visual narrative. Scenes are shown rather than quoted, so emotional beats land immediately and the ambiguity of those signature letters becomes a choice of what the camera wants you to see. Beyond form, the characters shift. On the page, Merteuil's strategies and social calculus are painstakingly documented; you sense a cold, systematic cruelty. The film humanizes Valmont a bit more and lets the romance with Madame de Tourvel feel cinematic and tragic. Subplots and minor correspondences vanish or get tightened: friendships, social maneuvering, and the slow unspooling of reputations in salons are compressed for time. The novel's satire of aristocratic hypocrisy is sharper; the movie leans into erotic tension and performance. If you like puzzles and moral ambiguity, the book rewards rereading. If you enjoy performance, costume and immediacy, the film is a deliciously theatrical distillation. I tend to flip between them depending on my mood — sometimes I want the slow burn of letters, sometimes the sting of a look on camera.

I've always been fascinated by how a single book can sprout so many different lives, and 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses' is the perfect example. When I read it as a teenager I loved the cold, epistolary precision—letters that hint more than they say—but watching 'Dangerous Liaisons' on film made me notice how much the storytelling itself changes in retellings. Filmmakers and playwrights strip away the letter format and replace it with faces, gestures, costume, and music, which makes emotional calculation suddenly visible and visceral. That shift often amplifies sexuality and cruelty, turning witty moral ambiguity into a theatrical game: seduction becomes choreography, not just prose. Retellings like 'Valmont' and the teen spin 'Cruel Intentions' also relocated the power-play to different social milieus, which highlights different stakes—aristocratic reputation versus high-school hierarchy. Beyond scenery, later versions tinker with sympathy and consequence. Some soften the villains, others punish them more clearly, and many modern takes question consent or offer queer and feminist perspectives. For me, those changes keep the core provocation alive: who owns desire, and who pays for manipulating it?

Flirting with the book’s venomous charm never gets old for me. When I read 'Dangerous Liaisons' I get pulled into a world where seduction is a tool, and emotional cruelty is treated like a sport. The obvious themes — manipulation, power plays, and sexual politics — sit front and center, but the novel also thrills in subtler areas: the corrosive boredom of aristocratic life, how gossip and reputation are weaponized, and how personal freedom is often just a masquerade. What hooked me most was the epistolary format: letters make privacy performative, so every confession becomes a staged act. That structure forces you to question authenticity — who’s truthful, who’s posturing, and how language itself is used as a dagger. Add the revenge plotlines and the moral consequences that spiral outwards, and you’ve got a story that’s equal parts social satire and psychological thriller. It left me thinking about how modern influencers trade on similar tools of image and manipulation, which makes 'Dangerous Liaisons' feel oddly contemporary.

There's something intoxicating about late-80s melodrama that makes me want to rewatch films on rainy weekends, and 'Dangerous Liaisons' is prime material for that. The 1988 film was directed by Stephen Frears, whose touch balances the wickedness and the elegance of the piece. I first saw it in a cramped cinema club that smelled of popcorn and old programs, and I was blown away by how he framed those drawing-room confrontations—every look and slant of light felt like a delicious dagger. Christopher Hampton adapted the screenplay from his own play, which itself came from the original novel 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses'. Frears brought a controlled, almost theatrical precision to the screen, letting the actors—Glenn Close, John Malkovich, and Michelle Pfeiffer—carry the venom. If you’re into character-driven period pieces, his direction is a masterclass in restraint and cruelty; he makes every polite smile count. I always end up noticing the small visual flourishes that hint at the characters' motives, and that’s very much Frears' doing.

I still get a little thrill remembering the performances in 'Dangerous Liaisons' — the cast is just deliciously wicked. Glenn Close plays the icy, calculating Marquise de Merteuil, and she owns every scene with this razor-sharp control that makes you admire and hate her at once. John Malkovich is the charmingly ruthless Vicomte de Valmont; his chemistry with Close is the engine of the whole film, a tense, playful cruelty that keeps you hooked. Michelle Pfeiffer brings a quiet, heartbreaking dignity to Madame de Tourvel, making her fall from grace feel painfully human. Bright and mischievous Uma Thurman is Cécile de Volanges, whose innocence is both comic and tragic, while Keanu Reeves plays the young Chevalier Danceny — he’s earnest and a bit naive, a good contrast to the scheming adults. Directed by Stephen Frears, the film adapts the classic novel with a keen eye for decadence and social games, and the actors make those games feel dangerously personal. I always find myself noticing new little choices they make on a rewatch.

I still get a little fired up when this comes up in conversations — 'Dangerous Liaisons' hit a nerve because it refuses to hand critics a moral comfortable to wear. When Choderlos de Laclos first published the epistolary novel, readers were shocked by how intimate the machinery of cruelty was written down: letters that let you live inside manipulation, not just observe it. That form made the characters’ moral decay feel immediate and, worse for the period, oddly glamorous. Critics who wanted clear moral closure were annoyed because the text delights in ambiguity rather than moralizing. Jump forward to stage and film adaptations and the controversy multiplies. Directors and actors who leaned into the sensual, elegant surfaces—costume, perfume, candlelight—raised questions about aestheticizing vice. Some critics accused adaptations of glamorizing cruelty, or of bending the novel into a spectacle that prioritized style over Laclos’s cold social critique. Feminist and queer readings complicated things further: who is punished, who is admired, who gets the audience’s sympathy? Those knotty questions are exactly why I keep coming back to it — it makes me squirm and think in equal measure.

I still get a little thrill when the opening strings swell in 'Dangerous Liaisons'—that lush, aching sound is the work of Georges Delerue. He was a French composer who made those intimate, melodic scores that stick in your head, and for this film he wrote music that feels both courtly and heartbreakingly modern. I first noticed his fingerprints while rewatching the scene in which tension tightens like a violin bow; the music refuses to be purely historical pastiche and instead gives the characters emotional weight. If you like orchestral scores that feel cinematic and personal at the same time, Delerue’s soundtrack for 'Dangerous Liaisons' is a gorgeous example. I often put it on when I want something that’s dramatic without being shouty—perfect for a rainy afternoon with a cup of tea and a pile of novels.

Funny thing about rereading 'Dangerous Liaisons' as an older reader — I found myself paying more attention to the small silences than the grand manipulations. On the surface, it's a game of sexual conquests and reputations: men like Valmont weaponize charm and status, while the women’s social power is supposed to be limited to reputation and marriageability. But the text (and the 1988 film) flips that idea by showing how reputation itself is currency. The Marquise de Merteuil, in particular, turns gendered constraints into a toolkit; she scripts men and women alike, revealing that power in that world often hides behind performance and language. What makes it compelling to me is how destructive that performative power can be. The women aren’t simply victims, nor are the men free of vulnerability — honor, shame, and social visibility bind everyone. It reads like a warning about systems where intimacy and reputation are transactional, and it left me thinking about how people today still manage public and private selves in similar, if less powdered, ways.