If you haven't seen the music video for Bruce Springsteen's "I'm On Fire," the following piece probably won't interest you very much. So, before you read any further, please give it a watch. Then, after acclimating yourself to its majesty, feel free to continue with my diatribe.
Here's the video:
In the same way that cinephiles can pontificate ad nauseam on Citizen Kane (1941), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1969), and The Godfather (1972), I can go on and on about the "I'm On Fire" music video, which I hold in the same regard as the aforementioned films. Clocking in at just three and a half minutes, the video for "I'm On Fire" tells a complex story about yearning and impulses, one that most filmmakers would struggle to execute with as much poignancy in feature-length format. The economy of storytelling is so understated that it's easy to miss just how rich the subtext of every moment is and how much exposition is delivered in a few brief words and gestures.
I've watched the "I'm On Fire" music video hundreds of times, and I imagine I'll watch it a few hundred times more before I die. I first encountered it on my parent's VHS copy of Bruce Springsteen: Video Anthology 1978 -1988. The collection includes most of Springsteen's hits up until 1989: "Rosalita," "Dancing in the Dark" (directed by Brian De Palma), "Born to Run," "Glory Days," "Tunnel of Love," and "The River." Of the eighteen music videos featured, "I'm On Fire" struck me the most. I was old enough to understand the basic storyline but too young to pick up on all the subtleties that make the video so compelling. It wouldn't be until many years later, when I revisited the video as an adult, that "I'm On Fire" transcended from my favorite Springsteen video to one of my all-time favorite examples of narrative filmmaking.
Before getting into the nitty-gritty of the video, I'd like to touch upon the song itself, as the "I'm On Fire" video distillates the song's themes. Released on Springsteen's seventh studio album, Born In The U.S.A. (1985), "I'm On Fire" achieved unexpected success as a single, reaching the Billboard Top 10 in the U.S. Unlike the other anthemic singles from Born In The U.S.A., "I'm On Fire" is dark and moody, built around a soft rockabilly beat, arpeggiated electric guitar, and atmospheric synthesizers. The lyrical content revolves around pent-up sexual tension, told from the perspective of a narrator who is lusting after someone already taken.
In recent years, the song's opening line ("Hey little girl, is your daddy home?") has come under scrutiny. If you take the lyric at face value, it implies pedophilia. However, like many things retrospectively reevaluated as problematic, this reading fails to account for context and intent. Springsteen wrote "I'm On Fire" in 1982, inspired by Johnny Cash. He originally intended it to be on Nebraska (1982): a stripped-back album that reflects a kind of midcentury Americana-noir, filled with desperate characters, forsaken places, and slang terminology. The language that Springsteen utilizes for the lyrics on Nebraska is directly correlated to the kind of dialect his hapless narrators would use, such as calling a mafia boss a "chicken man" in the opening lines of the haunting "Atlantic City" ("Well they blew up a chicken man down in Philly last night/And they blew up his house, too"). Likewise, "I'm On Fire" — which spiritually belongs more to Nebraska than Born In The U.S.A. — is filled with colloquialisms representative of a lost American vernacular, such as calling a girl's boyfriend or husband her "daddy." The "bad desire" that Springsteen sings about in "I'm On Fire" isn't directed toward a little girl whose daddy isn't home but a woman already in a committed romantic relationship with another man.
But lyrical analysis isn't the focus of this piece. I don't want to spend any more time extrapolating on the contemporary misinterpretation of such lyrics other than to reiterate that it's just that: a misinterpretation. (Check out songs such as "Every Baby Needs a Da Da Daddy" by Marilyn Monroe or "Time Of The Season" by The Zombies, popular songs that belong to the period Springsteen is lyrically emulating that use slang such as "daddy"). But to understand how the video (which doesn't feature a little girl or missing daddy) mirrors the song, I felt it was important to address. Alright, now back to the video…
Directed by John Sayles (who also directed the music videos for "Born In The U.S.A." and "Glory Days"), "I'm On Fire" is more of a dramatic interpretation of the song than a performance piece. Before the song kicks in, we're given a minute-long scene in a Los Angeles auto repair shop, where Springsteen plays a mechanic. One day, a woman in a white dress and matching heels brings her 1956 Ford Thunderbird to the shop for servicing. Although we never see her face, we see Springsteen's: wide-eyed and enamored, clearly smitten by this lovely woman bringing in her equally lovely vintage car. He offers to drop off the Thunderbird at her house, but the woman declines. She hands him the keys, saying goodbye and leaving. Springsteen ponders what to do, ultimately deciding to drive the car to the woman's house. Once there, he stops himself before ringing the doorbell, leaving the keys in the mailbox and walking away.
Pretty simple, right? As a narrative piece, it doesn't seem like much to unpack. It's not until subsequent rewatches of "I'm On Fire" that you catch all the micro and macro implications that hint at the larger story at play.
It begins in the first shot, a dolly up to Springsteen as he works underneath a car. From offscreen, we hear two other mechanics talking about the mysterious woman in white: "She's bringing it in again," one of them says. "She gets that car tuned up at least once a week," the other mechanic responds. "She asked for our friend here, personally," the mechanic says teasingly, kicking at Springsteen's boots. "She must like the way he rotates the tires."
In a mere ten seconds, these opening lines set the stage for the drama of "I'm On Fire." This isn't the first time the woman in white has dropped off the Thunderbird at the shop: she comes in "at least once a week," and every time, she requests Springsteen as her mechanic. When the Thunderbird rolls into the garage, it's immaculate. Right away, we see that this isn't a car needing servicing. Maybe the woman in white does like the way Springsteen rotates tires, as the other mechanics jokingly mentioned. But probably not. Based on the car's condition and her personal requests, the woman in white is here to see The Boss.
The Thunderbird door opens, and the woman gets out. We follow her white heels, clicking against the concrete floor as she approaches Springsteen. He slides out from underneath the car he's working on, a smile sweeping across his face the moment he sees the woman in white. "How's it going?" she asks. "It's going okay; it's going alright," Springsteen responds with equal parts infatuation and nervousness. She asks if he can have the car ready for her by tomorrow, and Springsteen tells her that won't be a problem — he'll even drop it off at her house to save her the trip back to the auto shop. "No, we live way out in the hills. I better come pick it up," she responds. It's worth noting that the woman in white uses the word "we," indirectly inferring that she doesn't live alone. This is further reinforced by a cut to a closeup P.O.V. shot from Springsteen's perspective of her well-manicured hands, where a diamond wedding ring sparkles on her finger. In the same shot, we also see a gold bracelet on her wrist, letting us know that the woman in white is not only married but also well-off. Besides her expensive jewelry, she can afford to live "way out in the hills" and drive a minty 1956 Thunderbird that she has no problem servicing weekly. What could a woman like this possibly want with a blue-collared mechanic in jeans and an oil-stained t-shirt?
She hands Springsteen a ring full of keys, plopping it down in his open palm. She isn't just giving him her car keys, though — she's giving him a whole ring full. Yes, the keys to the Thunderbird are there, but so are many others — possibly the keys to her house. Springsteen gives her a cursory glance of confusion as if asking, "What are you trying to tell me here?" but he doesn't address all the additional keys. He remains silent, a plethora of imagined situations racing across his dumbstruck expression. The woman in white departs by saying, "We'll, I'll see ya." Springsteen watches her walk away, looking at the keys in his hand. "Alright, I'll see ya," he mutters as the song fades into the soundtrack.
The scene is set: the woman in white has indirectly invited Springsteen back to her place, and the ball is in Springsteen's court. If he chooses not to accept, no harm, no foul — she'll return to the auto shop and pick up the Thunderbird in the morning, just like she does every week. But if he wants to, he has the green light to engage in an affair in the form of a key ring. We already know that Springsteen has a longstanding repertoire with the woman in white and is attracted to her. He's probably spent countless hours daydreaming about having an affair with this upper-crust babe, and now his dreams can be turned into a reality. So what should he do?
We leave the scene in the garage and dissolve into Springsteen at his cramped studio apartment later that night, lying on a twin bed and staring at the ceiling, contemplating what to do. We're given just enough visual details in this one-shot scene to see that Springsteen is most likely single and lives a meager life. His apartment is sparsely furnished, his walls barren; it's late at night, and he's alone, wrestling with his dilemma. On the one hand, he's a lonely auto mechanic who has the option to hook up with the woman he's been aching for. And let's face it — the Boss is horny ("At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet/And a freight train running through the middle of my head/Only you can cool my desire").
On the other hand, the woman in white is married and leads a privileged lifestyle, far different than Springsteen's working-class existence. What could he offer her besides a night of sex, resulting in further complications? As the camera swoops in on Springsteen, he suddenly sits up in bed, the proverbial light bulb clicking on above his head. He's made his decision: he's going to see the woman in white, compilations and ethical problems be damned! He's on fire!
The next scene finds Springsteen back at the auto shop, walking toward the Thunderbird. Blue lights filter through the windows, casting a surreal glow across the darkened garage. It's one of the best shots from the video, highly stylized and stunningly graphic. In comparison to the rest of the naturalistic visuals, it's decidedly dreamlike and ghostly. Due to the ethereal quality of this imagery directly following the scene with Springsteen lying in bed, it's been speculated that from this moment on, the remainder of the video takes place in a dream. Everything else that happens is untethered from reality, and what we're really seeing is Springsteen's unconscious state. This theory also explains why we never see the woman in white's face: she's a figment of Springsteen's imagination, an idealized fantasy; she doesn't exist.
Yet another theory this scene brings about is that Springsteen's object of desire is actually the car. The woman in white is a MacGuffin, nothing more than a red herring for his true craving: a 1956 Thunderbird. The Thunderbird is undoubtedly a gorgeous piece of machinery that Springsteen spends time with weekly. As a mechanic, he knows the Thunderbird inside and out; he knows exactly what to do to make it purr. When he sings, "Tell me now, baby/Is he good to you?/Can he do to you the things that I do?/Oh no, I can take you higher," it can be surmised he's speaking to the Thunderbird. The woman in white and her husband may be able to afford such an opulent vehicle, but they can't give it the love and affection that a seasoned mechanic such as Springsteen can. This is why the imagery is hallucinatory when he's in the garage; at last, he's all alone with the vintage automobile, a romantic daydream between him and the Thunderbird.
When Springsteen gets into the Thunderbird, he pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a photograph. We never see the photo, only Springsteen's ambiguous reaction to it. He holds it in front of him, studying it with a blank expression. Is the photo of the woman in white, fanning his flames of desire? Or is it a photo of her husband, further complicating his decision to drive to their house in the hills? While we never find out, whatever the photo is of belongs to the woman in white's personal life — a life that Springsteen has no part of, a life that he's about to descend upon not as a mechanic but as a lover. He puts the keys in the ignition.
In the next sequence, we follow Springsteen as he cruises through L.A. in the Thunderbird. The streets are deserted and the multi-colored lights of the city bloom like orbs in the background. This is after-hours L.A., the time of night when the bars have already closed and the city sleeps. As the old saying goes, "Nothing good ever happens after 2 am," and whatever is about to happen to the Boss may get quite messy. But he's not thinking about that. For now, Springsteen has tunnel vision, overcome with sexual hunger and caught in the throes of lust.
The Thunderbird ascends the roads into the Hollywood Hills, pulling up in front of a darkened mansion. But it's not all dark. Despite the late hour, the upstairs light is still on — the bedroom light. The woman in white is still up. She's waiting for him.
Springsteen approaches the front door, glancing at the illuminated bedroom window above him. He reaches toward the doorbell, his finger about to press it when —
He stops. He pauses for a moment, looking back up at the bedroom window before returning his eyes to the doorbell. He takes the ring of keys and drops them in the front mailbox, smiling and laughing to himself. As he walks away, he passes by the parked Thunderbird before disappearing into the shadows, the lights of L.A. twinkling below him.
Although we don't see what happens next, we know that when the woman in white wakes up in the morning, she'll find the Thunderbird parked outside her house. She'll also find her keys in the mailbox — Springsteen's answer to her offer. Does she continue to return to the auto shop to get her Thunderbird serviced by her favorite mechanic? Does Springsteen later regret not having followed through on his hedonistic impulses?
The video's ending is why I don't buy into the alternate theories. If the events depicted are nothing more than a titillating fever dream inside Springsteen's head, it's rather uneventful. A dream about an affair with the woman you've been desiring would probably include engaging in sex. Dream logic rarely accounts for consequences; it's a chance for the unconscious mind to cut loose and do all the wild things it'd otherwise think twice about during waking hours. But this isn't the case for Springsteen, who makes a pragmatic decision — who does think twice about what he's doing and its repercussions — and extinguishes the raging fire burning inside of him.
Similarly, the theory that Springsteen's object of desire is the Thunderbird is also curtailed by the ending. He's been driving the car around all night and could easily continue to do so. Hell, if he really wanted to, he could steal it. But instead, he returns it to the woman in white. Furthermore, when he does arrive at her house, his focus isn't on what to do about the Thunderbird but what to do about that light on in the upstairs bedroom window, where the woman in white awaits his arrival. He's already parked the Thunderbird and left it on the street — that part of the story is over. But instead of the video ending there, it ends with him on the doorstep, debating whether he should ring the doorbell.
Even though I don't agree with these theories, I'm glad they exist. I love any piece of art that functions on numerous levels, conveying enough information to provide a surface-level understanding but enough ambiguity to allow for varied interpretations (I'm reminded of films such as The Shining [1980], which can be reconsidered endlessly based on all the information that is implied and/or omitted while still functioning as a haunted house horror. In music, I think of songs such as "Corinne" by Metronomy, which initially seems to be about an abusive relationship between a heartbroken lover and their ex but can also be deciphered as a disgruntled, trigger-happy military vet longing to reconnect with his gun, which he affectionally named Corinne). However unfounded or haphazard I personally find these theories is secondary to the fact that "I'm On Fire" can inspire them in the first place, which speaks to the amount of subtextual depth the seemingly innocuous storyline has.
While I love every second of the video for "I'm On Fire," the ending is my favorite part. In my opinion, it's why the video works and leaves a lasting impression. I've always struggled to articulate why the ending resonates so deeply with me. Admittedly, even while writing this, I've typed and deleted many sentences that don't quite encapsulate my thoughts and feelings.
In storytelling — especially the more aggressive forms such as screenwriting — you're taught to establish the hero's "want," which establishes the plot. More often than not, this "want" propels them through the story, and it's up to the writer to supply enough conflict from beginning to end to interfere with the hero achieving his "want." How the hero responds to these obstacles shapes their character, which in turn comes to define what they truly "need" (or their goal). For example, a tenacious underdog "wants" to get rich, and we follow them as they face setback after setback to become a wealthy tycoon. Along the way, this scrappy protagonist meets a romantic interest, and after achieving their "want," they realize what they really "need" in their life isn't money but love. "Money can't buy you everything," the tagline may read, or "The best things in life don't have a price tag." You get the picture. We've seen these stories a million times.
The "I'm On Fire" video concludes on a downbeat note, unsensational and undramatic. The only obstacle stopping Springsteen from attaining his "want" is himself. On his own accord, he chooses not to achieve it, despite it being right at his fingertip. Because of this, it can be said that he realizes his “need:” to think with his head, not with his dick.
Most narratives revolving around lust (especially of the masculine variety) are about what happens when someone gives into their primal urges and the subsequent fallout from such choices. In contrast, "I'm On Fire" gives us a protagonist who catches himself before things have the potential to go south. In one straightforward action, we see Springsteen come to a moment of clarity. The clouds of arousal fade away, and he finds himself on the doorstep of a married woman. No dialogue is needed to explain Springsteen's decision. We can see it on his face when he laughs to himself, turning away. "What the hell am I doing here?" his expression seems to say. Despite how badly he wants the woman in white, he realizes the sticky situation he's about to get himself into and stops while he's ahead. It's probably not the choice Mick Jagger or Prince would make, but it's the choice Springsteen makes.
"I'm On Fire" speaks to desire and passion — being all revved up by the one you can't have — but also to loneliness. Such feelings often occur all at once, instigating one another and getting mixed up into a cocktail of emotional upheaval. You know the score: the itch you can't scratch, the face you can't get out of your head, the desperate late-night phone calls, the confessional voicemails and texts to people you haven't spoken to in months or years. Loneliness can drive you to do crazy things. Now, combine that with being all horned up, and Springsteen's predicament becomes all the more familiar. What isn't as commonplace is choosing to remain alone by acknowledging the inherent flaws in your "want." Again, this is the unsexy choice — the hard choice — but it's the one "I'm On Fire" concludes on. Perhaps this is why I like the ending so much. Or maybe it's just that I like the romanticism of Springsteen embodying the lone wolf, wandering off into the darkness of the Hollywood Hills like a coyote. Whatever the reason, I've thought about Springsteen dropping those keys in the mailbox at least a few times a week for most of my life.
Coincidentally, as I've been writing and rewriting this piece the past few days, The Ringer published an excerpt from Steven Hyden's new book, There Was Nothing You Could Do: Bruce Springsteen's Born In The U.S.A., which explores Springsteen's mid-80s output and how his "every-man" persona was forged by his music videos from this time period. There must be "Spingsteen-music-video-fever" in the air.
Focusing on "I'm On Fire," Hyden writes, "The tension of the 'I'm on Fire' video is, of course, sexual in nature. Just as the song exudes desire, the video creates an instant patina of longing. And yet the story (like Bruce's lyrics) is about not following through on what the protagonist wants. Positioning Bruce as a carnal creature who is ultimately chaste was yet another ingenious way to make him mean different things to different audiences. 'I'm on Fire' invites the audience to envision Bruce as the kind of man who could indulge in a naughty night of passion with a married woman but chooses not to do so. The 'I'm on Fire' video was like a prophylactic for the Boss's libidinous side. He could be the stud and the virgin simultaneously."