Crimes of the Future (2022)

 "Surgery is the new sex."

From looking at the iMDb rating, this film isn't rated very highly. I'll come straight to it: I think it's brilliant. Those who dislike it, I suspect, were looking for something else. David Cronenberg doing body horror again after all these decades, after all, creates certain expectations. People will expect this to be like his body horror of the '70s and '80s. And, yes, there's some of that. Yet, like all Cronenberg's films of the last decade or two, this is entirely a film of ideas.

It's a future set in a pleasingly low budget society, claustrophobic, studio bound, beautifully and artistically shot with precious little nature to stop Cronenberg being in total control of his artistic environment. Only the first, shocking sequence, with its plastic bin eating and its graphic scene of filicide, takes place anywhere near nature.

No: this is a world in which both pain and infection are things of the past, and surgery is therefore a light matter, while the human body is evolving fast (let us briefly handwave away that this isn't how natural selection works, just as Saul handwaves away the impossibility of traits arising from surgery being inherited) in order to survive in a plastic, polluted environment.

Only in this world can exist a couple like Captice and Saul, using the routine surgery of the removal of his emerging mutant body organs as performance art. This despite the scepticism of the Detective to whom Saul is reporting, who scoffs at random emerging organs being “Picasso, Deschamps, Francis Bacon, perhaps?

Yet there is also a blatant subtext of surgery as sex, as fetish. This is, of course, not the first time Cronenberg has explored such themes, and one may certainly raise an eyebrow at this. 

Body horror abounds- tattooed organs, a zipped abdomen- but the ideas just keep coming in this thoughtful, disturbing dystopia. Cronenberg has most certainly still got it

Naked Lunch (1991)

 "It's a Kafka high. You feel like a bug."

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I got into the habit of reading novels that were seen as a bit counter-culture, a bit alternative, a bit offbeat. Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, that sort of thing. And, for some reason, I ended up reading a lot of William S. Burroughs including, yes, Naked Lunch. And that isn't exactly an experience I can recommend. Let's just say it's a novel you can only read when you're young...!

This film, though? Oh, the novel and David Cronenberg were made for each other. So much body horror, and not just the (deliciously realised) Mugwumps. No, we have sentient, spymaster typewriters which are highly sexed, which ejaculate and which, er, stand to attention when excited. Because of course we do. This is the perfect canvas for Cronenberg to do his thing.

The film is visually exquisite, as one might expect. Yet the highlight may be Peter Weller's monologue recounting that surreal anal-related sequence from the novel. He truly carries the film in a suitably deadpan performance, believable as Burroughs himself, the still point beside whom all the gloriously surreal stuff makes a weird kind of sense.

No, this isn't a straight adaptation of a novel that is, straightforwardly, unfilmable, with its complex, bonkers plot and even more complex, bonkers subtext... and written by an author who was a heavy user of certain substances. Yet, albeit with the addition of certain elements from Burroughs' life (the notorious "William Tell" act especially), it comes surprisingly close.

Absolutely peak Cronenberg. A film that achieves the impossible, and does so with aplomb.

Scanners (1981)

 "You murdered the future!"

Before I get into it... yes, I haven't blogged for about a week and there won't be much for the next week either. Nothing bad, just life stuff.

It's been a while since I blogged a Cronenberg, hasn't it? Don't get me wrong: all his stuff is bloody good. But the early body horror films are particularly delightful... if that's the word.

This film is a masterpiece. The use of the camera and of music, as ever, creates a uniquely Cronenberg atmosphere. Interior spaces always seem so very liminal. And then we have the subject matter... psychic nutters who can read your mind while making you feel ill, move objects with their mind... and make your head explode. There are some deeply effective body horror moments, not least with the duel at the end. Those pulsing veins... brr!

The performances... well, they're generally bland, Michael Ironside and the ever-superb Patrick McGoohan being very much the exception, but it doesn't matter. This isn't a film about characters, about people. It's about themes, the horror, the ongoing mystery and the visuals.

The big reveal at the end, about what's really been going on, is clever, satisfying and topical. Big Pharma can indeed be a bad thing. Just, y'know, don't let that lead you down the rabbit holes of anti-vaxxer nonsense or "alternative" medicine.

Do you feel a nosebleed coming on...?

Shivers (1975)

 "

David Cronenberg is a favourite director of mine, He occupies that strange middle ground between respected auteur and body horror genre director, at least in the early part of his career: later on,the body horror disappears and Cronenberg safely gets the approval of the snobbish critics whi sniff at his earlier work, even this film, which is safely gathered into the canon of we horror aficionados, Yet this is no B movie. It deserves more.

Amonst the cast, of course, is Barbara Steele, to whom the phrase "horror queen" could be applied. And this very modern film (for 1975), opening with a posh advert for a load of posh aparments on the St Lawrence in Montreal, is certainly within the horror genre. Yet it centres ver specifically on a body horror equated exactly with sexzuality. As Janine says, while trying to seductively kill Dr St Luc, mere existence is sexuality; we exist to reproduce, The species is all. So here we have a Dr Hobbes who plans to replace malfunctioning organs with useful parasites that do the same job, yet (after the nonce dies after murdering a schoolgirl he'd been shagging, causing distressingly little outrage) his true philosopjy is that humans are too cerebral and insufficiently sexual. This is the perfect premise for a film based on the phenimenon of disgusting little phallic worms which can hardly do other than represent male sexuality. There's a clearly rapey theme here, intended to evoke bloody disgust, and no one gets out alive, as we're all guilty of having sexual desires, if not necessarily violent ones. 

This is at once a superb horror film, belying its low budget, and a harbinger of what Cronenberg has yet to bring us.The man's a genius.

The Brood (1979)

 "It has no teeth, but you'd get a pretty nasty bite from these beak-like gums..."

Nasty divorces and unpleasant custody battles happen, sadly, even to auteur film directors. And, if said auteur happens to be David Cronenberg, this will naturally lead to a film all about how evil his ex is and why he should have custody of his daughter, all through the medium of extreme body horror.

Thing is, though, it may well be blatant that this is what he's doing, but none of that stops this film being a masterfully helmed wotk of genius. This film really ought to feel self-indulgent, but it's just too good for that.

It helps that we have a just-sober-enough Oliver Reed as a gloriously weird red herring of a creepily unorthodox psychiatrist (his book looks like a kind of very '70s yet also very Cronenberg tome: Erich Von Daniken with body horror) who is there as a very prominent piece of misdirection, but the real killers are, it seems, a gang of homonculuses (none of this Latinate "homonculi" nonsense; loan words don't get to bring their own syntax with them even if they are from swanky old Latin) which are birthed by, let's face it, a character representing Cronenberg's ex, in gloriously horrific ways as seen in the extraordinarily long and wonderfully effective final scene.

As ever with Cronenberg we have exquisite direction with the most banal of locations made to look creepily beautiful. We have eccentric minor characters and his usual themes of memory, family, bodily squelchiness and medical madness. This film is superb.

Rabid (1977)

 “I don't want to become the Colonel Sanders of plastic surgery..."

Well. I've always said until now that I've seen an awful lot of David Cronenberg films (I may do an index for the blog after this if I remember. Maybe David Lynch too.), but I've somehow contrived to focus on the ones with the least emphasis on his signatute body horror- although his later films are indeed very good.

This one goes a long way towards redressing the balance, in being the Canadian auteur's second film- low budget, and a  glimpse at a talented young man rather than an established director- and having body horror coming out of its armpit, by means of a suspiciously phallic-looking bloodsucking proboscis, which makes it interesting that the affected protagonist, Rosie, is a woman. Perhaps this film is inspired by sex during a period, but... moving swiftly on.

Basically, this is a low budget film with no stars and few extras that nevertheless achieves brilliance necause it's directed by an enfant terrible. Cronenberg's pacing, signature camerawork and visual style are already present and correct as a B movie plot- a girl has a motorbike crash and has to have emergency surgery by an unconventional plastic surgeon (called Dr Keloid!), leading to said body horror and a rabies-type plague on a suspiciously Anglophone Montreal where only a random exposition-spouting cop happens to be from the French-speaking majority- is raised to something much greater by sheer style. The locations, the lighting, even the mid-twentieth century architecture are made to look stunning.

It can be a fascinating experience to see a cinematic genius at work in their early, unheralded, years, where the creativity relies not on Hollywood visual tricks but on making something wonderful out of nothing. This is one of them.

 

 

A Dangerous Method (2011)

“Angels always speak German...”

I've been watching a lot of David Cronenberg films lately, something which stems from both an increasing admiration of the diversity and extraordinary quality of his work and their ease of availability, particularly as several of them have been available on Amazon Prime of late. Sadly, I've seen rather more of the later films which tend to be subtitled than the older, more stereotypically Cronenberg "body horror" films which Amazon Prime seems unable to subtitle although its rival Netflix seems to have no trouble subtitling everything. Still, this superb film can't be blamed for that, and is another example of Cronenberg's late career peak.I hope, with increasing desperation, that he hasn't retired.

Superficiall this is a typical late Cronenberg film in that the camerawork and mood feel like Cronenberg and, of course, Viggo Mortensen plays a prominent role. Yet this is anything but a typical sort of film for Cronenberg to helm, being an adaptation of a period stage play that eschews the visual in favour of psychology. In every sense.

This is a fascinating portrait of three figures in intellectual figures- the well-known figures of Sigmund Freud and Paul Jung and the less famous yet pivotal figure of Sabina Spielrein.The film deals with several themes which echo those of psychoanalysis- father figures, sexual repression and guilt, and a very Belle Epoch approach to kink and kink-shaming, but also such things as social class and the tension between a comfortable yet repressed bourgeois life and a Bohemian life of freedom without security. It's a fascinating film of ideas, in that sense reminiscent of Cronenberg's Cosmopolis, but also a film full of repressed passion.

The whole thing is anchored by the three central performances of Mortensen, Michael Fassbender and expecially Keira Knightley, whose performance is simly extraordinary. A splendid film.

Maps to the Stars (2014)

“She’s a Scientologist.”

“I was thinking of converting. Kind of a career move.”

I know I've blogged a lot of Cronenberg fils lately, but he fascinates me. He's known for his body horror, but his work (especially in recent decades) is so much more than that- philosophical, dreamlike, with clear themes but a very adult ambiguity of meaning. So here's another.

This film is, of course, a blatant denunciation, from far to the north, of Hollywood and it's vacuous culture where everyone is an aspiring actor/writer/second gaffer. And Hollywood royalty is as horrible and exploitative as anything in the Ancien Regime- arrogant, entitled, obsessed with new age mumbo jumbo, and full of nasty casual prejudices beneath the surface liberalism. They are empty leeches who both feed off and discard ordinary people, from whose lives they are so very far removed. Havana (an excellent Julianne Moore) is as much a monster as anyone in the creepily incstuous and cursed Weiss family, and the relationship between her and Agatha is, I suppose, the fairly straightforward thematic core of the film.

But we also have the weird, incestuous and similarly loathsome Weiss family, seen being generally empty and horrible until prodgal daughter Agatha returns to "make amends". The plot unfolds at the perfect pace as the full, repetitive, abusive horror of the family's curse slowly unwinds. This is, I think, a film that will reward repetitive viewings. While critics are, I know, divided on ths, still Cronenberg's latest, I personally find it utterly compelling.

The Dead Zone (1983)

"The missiles are flying!"

Two David Cronenberg films in one year? This film is probably a little less well known than Videodrome, which I liked a lot. But it's probably the better film.

I suppose it must be admitted that the film relies heavily on Stephen King's original novel, of which it's an adaptation and which I haven't seen. But the film is superbly shot and paced, Christopher Walken is superb as a decidedly non-heroic lead, and the cruelty of the various tragedies are all the more effective for their unsentimental depiction. Spielberg this ain't.

This is an unnerving depiction of a normal, decent but fallible person who develops psychic powers after an accident, but at the huge cost of losing five years of his life and, worse, the love of his life. His bitterness is very human, and I like how it takes him time to reluctantly use his "powers" to help people- although his conscience tends to prevail.

This is not a film about a superhero, but a realistic depiction of how frightening it must be to have "powers" which one can neither control or understand, which are unnerving and uncomfortable, and which bring pain, possible eventual death, unwanted fame and, ultimately, impossible moral dilemmas.

This is at once a tragic love story, a story about ethics and one of the most intelligent and thought provoking examination of the implications of psychic powers. Not a great film, perhaps, but a highly impressive one.

A History of Violence (2005)

“In this family we do not solve our problems by hitting people.

David Cronenberg is known for a certain type of film. This is very different from that type. Yet it's a very different type of film- an action film that's based around nuanced character and acting, and rather intelligent and thoughtful among all the violence, anyone?

It's hard, indeed impossible to discuss this film without spoilers. But it's about more than the twist; it's about how we can all construct our identities, about interiority, about the hope of redemption, about the violence that lurks within us, about what may lie beneath respectable and upstanding lives, about the alien nature of other people and the impossibility of truly knowing them, even if you're married to them, in love and still have good (and fetishistic) sex. But then, of course, in a very deep sense Edie does know who Tom is now. The past is a foreign country.

There's enough graphic violence here to qualify this as an action film, yet it's clever enough to simultaneously appeal to the arty film crowd. Viggo Mortensen gives a towering and dualistic performance that is truly extraordinary, although credit is also very much due to Maria Bello and to William Hurt, who shows his extraordinary versatility in a part very different from usual.

This is an extraordinary film, and one of the finest I've seen for a good many months.

Videodrome (1983)

“Television is reality. And reality... is less than television."

This is my first really early film by David Cronenberg, I've actually seen four of his films before, but this is the first of the early ones that made his reputation. And... wow.

This is a layered, fascinating film with a subtext which is, yes, about what we in the UK called video nasties (aren't moral panics delightful?), with Max's hallucinations an obvious metaphor for the allegedly dehumanising effect of screen sex and violence. But there's no didacticism, no moralising, and plenty of playfulness.

James Woods, he of Family Guy and Trump-loving fame, is excellent of the amoral Max who is always looking for more and more extreme sexual and violent content for his television station. He meets the very kinky Nicky, who loves whips, chains and more, and at first there's a heavy whiff of transgressive eroticism that reminds me of Cronenberg's later Crash. But no; that's just the starter, superbly and alluringly sexual though Debbie Harry is. I wish she'd done some more acting; she's good at it.

But the fourth wall here is never very solid, and the torture and death footage of "Videodrome" induces hallucination and, in the end, disturbing body horror of the type Cronenberg is almost synonymous for. It all makes strong sense in terms of theme, narrative and story beats but, of course, doesn't do anything so pedestrian as to make sense in terms of plot. It's an extraordinary film that not only looks early '80s but explores the anxieties of the age- many of which are still with us, such as the effect of porn on sex. It may not literally be cyberspace but seems to come very much from the same zeitgeist as William Gibson's Neuromancer the following year, a novel I really do need to read again.

An extraordinary, important film which has so much more to say than I will have noticed on just this viewing. Cronenberg is one of the select few filmmakers among the very greatest.

Dead Ringers (1988)

"She's heard that it makes sex come on like Nagasaki..."

This is the fourth David Cronenberg film I've seen (and blogged) and I've yet to see any with his famous body horror. Even here, beyond a weird dream sequence and the bloody ending, body horror is quite moderate and I've yet to see anything that would be described on Rick and Morty as "a Cronenberg".

That aside, the film is superbly shot, choreographed, scored, and contains a sublime and extraordinary performance by Jeremy Irons as the twins which is so outstanding that you forget he isn't even bothering to sound Canadian. On the surface it's all brilliant. And yet...

It's a weird film; Elliott and Beverly are twin gynaecologists and Elliott, being the more confident, seduces women and lets his brother have the sloppy seconds while letting them think it's the same person, which is a bit rapey, and they both live happily under this arrangement until Bev goes and falls in love with a movie star called Claire who, as a very Cronenberg detail, has a weird mutant vagina. This leads to a slow unravelling of first one twin and then the other, neither being quite an individual.

So, yeah, weird. But it doesn't really play with any of the ideas it brings up, and for me the bloody climax doesn'y quite feel either earned or weird enough. A well-made but oddly empty film.

Eastern Promises (2007)

"London is a city of whores and queers."

I confess that I need to see more early period avid Cronenberg for his trademark body horror, and I will. Yet up to now I've only seen some of his late period non-fantasy stuff- Crash and Cosmopolis, both excellent. So what will I make of Eastern Promises?

Well, the directing is excellent, of course, from the framing of the first shot onwards. This is Cronenberg's London film, a tribute to what remains very much an imperial capital long after its empire has gone, a melting pot, a metropolis and world city far out of proportion to the nation of which it is capital, and a city which now, alas, faces the catastrophe of Brexit.

And yet... despite the excellence of Naomi Watt and the superbly ambiguous Viggo Mortensen, this is a very good but hardly superlative gangster film with both a conscience and an aesthetic for violence (which is excellent throughout). The famous twist is... fairly predictable, and what we have is a film about the Russian mafia, albeit a perfectly good one, and fascinating about the context with the tattoos and that depressingly prevalent Russian homophobia, but this is less good than either of the other Cronenberg films I've seen so far.

What it does show, though, is how many in less fortunate parts of our continent still see London as being paved with gold, so they come, and are abused and disappointed, hopefully not to the extent of poor Tatiana. But what we have here is a good film that, while well-directed, feels more like television than film.,

Cosmopolis (2012)

"Talent is more erotic when it's wasted."

I haven't read the original Don DeLillo novel, or indeed anything by him: bad English graduate! But as a script it's superb, fizzling with ideas of Great American Novel standard. And on top of this we get the inspired, stylised directing style of the truly great David Cronenberg. Not all his fans will agree- this is significantly artier date than his better-known work- but it's among his best.

The ideas are superb. Eric Packer is a twenty-eight year old finance billionaire, and he's profoundly alienated from his world. But this alienation isn't existential angst, not even when he murders his own security guard on a whim in a presumed reference to The Outsider. No, this is something much more modern, alienation caused by the deeply abstract, chaotic randomness of our financial system. None of us understand it, but all of us gamble on it in some way and it has the power to wreck our society with crashes and economic storms. And none of it is real, not any more. Not even money is real: most money in the world is just IOU's written by banks, and if it was all called in then the system would collapse. It's absurd, but not in an old-fashioned existentialist sense. It's post-modern capitalism, heady and dangerous, and Eric employs a "head of theory" to pontificate about it. This is a world where financial markets can be thrust into uncertainty by the interpretation of a pause in the speech of the Chinese finance minister.

Eric, over the course of a day, seems to engineer his own self-destruction- casually ending his marriage by blatant infidelity, gambling his fortune on a Quixotic gesture against the yuan and, finally, seeking death. Only there can be find reality.

The visuals of the film complement the themes superbly: most of it is set in cars, and Cronenberg lingers over their erotic visual power in ways that remind me of Crash. The effect is claustrophobic: Eric is limited in where he can go by the chaos (that theme again) of the New York traffic as the president visits, and we see this with the narrow spaces in which he spends the film.

I'm not a fan of Robert Pattinson but he's superb here. And Paul Giamatti is outstanding. But isn't he always?

This is a brilliant film, one packed with far more meaning than I've been able to tease out, and a thing of true beauty. It is also, incidentally, notable for its positive portrayal of Muslims. A superb film.

Crash (1996)

"The car crash is a fertilising rather than destructive event."

This strange, disturbing yet beautiful film is, unforgivably, the first David Cronenberg film I've done for this blog; there will most definitely be more. This film caused a great deal of fuss at the time because of it's subject matter, but I assume we are all grown up non-Daily Mail readers who accept that sex is part of life and we all have our fetishes. The difference here, of course, is that the fetish in question is dangerous to both the participants and others; one cannot reasonably accuse the authorities of intolerance.

Indeed, the film makes no attempt to get us to sympathise with its protagonists; we are as alienated from them as they are from society. And yet, although the film has been relocated to Canada, the main character is named "James Ballard" as per J.G. Ballard's novel which, I must confess, I have not yet read. This is an interesting decision: why does the author choose to identify himself with such a character?

I suspect the answer lies in what the novel and film have to say about society. Cronenberg shows us an unremittingly urban landscape, a world of buildings and freeways and automobiles in which nature is seldom to be seen. Our characters- Ballard, his wife Catherine, the widowed Helen, the creepy Vaughan, the broken Gabrielle and the nihilistic Seagrave, exist in a very urban world where the individual is not in any way part of a wider community and where it is possible to associate only with people like oneself. All of those characters shown to be sexually active are polyamorous, in open relationships, with heavy hints towards bisexuality. Even sex is removed from any sense of human connection.

Without connections to society or any feelings of love, sex becomes mechanistic and nihilistic, pure instinct. And, while urbanisation is a clear theme, I think the main point here is a link between sec and death, with our characters' sex drives linking to their death drives.

Because that is what our characters have; death as a fetish. Seagrave is the prime example, found dead by Vaughan having re-enacted the death of Jayne Mansfield without him. And the last scene  shows Ballard comforting Catherine after the crash fails to kill her: "Maybe the next one, darling." And then they have sex beside the crashed car.

Probably the highlight of the film is a massive car crash which is treated by the camera as porn, a hugely effective clash of style and content as the camera lingers erotically over buckled bonnets and bloodied faces while even the soundtrack tries to tell us we are watching porn.

I cannot identify with this link between sex and death. Sex is not death; it creates life. Sex is two fingers up at the Reaper. But this is a beautifully developed motif, and this is a beautiful and philosophical work of art that deserves all the praise it gets.