Droid nailed this down as the worst film of 2012. While I have seen some of the other mentioned stinkers, and think that the worst film of last year was the incomparably awful Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, he is right about how “good” it is. Cosmopolis is a rotten, awful, pretentious, pompous movie, and lord knows what it is doing as part of Cronenberg’s canon. It’s winding me up a bit actually, because having found a bit of form with History of Violence and Eastern Promises, he seems to be luxuriating in the kind of tiresome crap that he wouldn’t have gone anywhere near in the 80′s. Following on from the disappointing Freud nonsense, Cosmopolis is another let down, and I’m hoping he’s not about to enter another fallow period.

Based on Dom Delillo’s insanely overrated novel, and apparently adapted by Cronenberg in 6 days, Cosmopolis was described by The London Film Review in equally demented hyperbole with

” The fact is, Cronenberg made a movie for YOU. The 99%. A movie that reflects, comments on[,] satirizes and parodies our time”

In a way, it was timely. The Occupy soap dodgers were in full hypocritical swing, busy sleeping faux-rough while swilling lattes from Starbucks and purchasing commercially made Guy Fawkes masks by the bucket load. Cosmopolis should have tapped right into this zeitgeist, but instead prompted mass walk outs, and I know precisely why. The middle class student audience that comprises both the Occupy movement and Cosmopolis’ core audience were busy sitting outside St. Paul’s Cathedral/ Wall St. singing “We shall overcome”, and for anyone else this is a painfully boring film. Fuck you, dirtbags.

This is a man in dire need of another facial expression

I suppose I should do a plot summary here. Except it’ll be nigh on impossible as Cosmopolis basically doesn’t have a plot. Packer (Robert Pattinson), a self-absorbed financial “Master of the Universe” is on a tailspin of self destruction. He’s placed a disastrous bet on the Yuan, and is about to lose it all. His inability to keep his prick in his pants has alienated his poet wife of 22 days, and he’s been getting death threats from an unknown assailant. It’s a bit harsh considering all the man wants is a haircut, except he struggles to get that, as he’s caught up in anti-Capitalist protests, and a rapper’s funeral.

So, he sits in his plush limo talking absolute drivel with various people, indulging in the odd bit of grubby sex, talking more drivel, before eventually getting his haircut, and encountering his would-be killer to, er, talk more drivel. Except “mumble” would probably be a better term for it. I genuinely became convinced that there was something wrong with my TV as I frantically turned the volume up to try to make out what they were saying. I have watched other films since, and can confirm that it’s not my telly. It’s Pattinson and Giametti (an actor I usually like) to blame.

So, what do you think about the financial crisis?

Acting wise, this is lousy. The cast is stuffed full of good to great actors in the form of Giametti, Juliette Binoche, Samantha Morton and others, but they’re being forced to recycle DeLillo’s dreadful, pompous, faux weighty critiques of capitalism. While occasionally Pattinson buts in with something allegedly profound along the lines of “Were you interested”. It’s absolutely fucking dire, and it becomes apparently very, very quickly that this isn’t a film. It’s a series of lectures on the inherent evil of capitalism and the financial system.

The writing it entirely to blame for this mess. Pattinson is an unsympathetic, anaemic looking pretty boy at the best of times, but he can’t be held responsible- even though he is on screen all film. The problem here is that Cronenberg himself said that the adaptation process was literally him transcribing the novel’s dialogue and then adding scene descriptions to it. This approach has produced an inordinately stagey film, as Packer lurches from tiresome encounter to even more boring and pretentious conversation. A brief moment of levity at the start of the film sees him doing business while getting a prostate exam (in his limo), but this proves to be the exception rather than the rule. I don’t like the dialogue in this novel, and think that it strives so hard to be “important” and meaningful that it basically becomes didactic and sterile. On screen, this is even worse.

He just made sure Juliette Binoche took his 1% in his limo and he seems to be very pleased about it. Smug git.

Then there’s the direction. If this is, as advertised, a scathing satire of the financial sector then Crones is the wrong director for it. We’ve got another beautifully constructed, elegantly staged but surgically precise and monumentally boring film. As with A Dangerous Method and so forth he just hasn’t got the style for a production on these lines- he doesn’t have the fire or the hatred. Cosmopolis feels boring and clinical (well, it is boring and clinical) and much of that comes down to the Canadian’s style. Actually, I struggle to think of anyone that could have turned in a good film from this script, but can categorically say that he wasn’t the man for the job.

Then there’s the message/ philosophy of the film. I consider the Occupy parasites to be hypocritical turd-fondling douchenozzles, and thus I don’t like being preached at by them. Also, has anyone actually established what the fuckers stand for yet? I can’t stand this 99% motif from them- as the 99% basically seems to be defined as “anyone with more money than us”. I’m totally lost by the idea that middle class students can “protest” with the predicted effectiveness of a perforated condom on a message that they have neither defined nor understood anyway. It’s another nebulous and useless manifesto; a call to arms that cannot be properly nailed down, and therefore not properly attacked.

Don’t shoot yourself in the hand Robert. It’s a waste of a bullet. Shoot yourself in the face instead.

“But but but Jarv” I hear you say in your whiny little bitch voice “aren’t you bothered about inequality and unfairness”. Well, yes I am- but I will NOT be preached to by Hollywood multi-millionaires on the subject- especially one who is so whorish that he starred in the fucking Twilight movies.  And I’m pretty certain that I’m not in the 1%

Overall, Cosmopolis is a terrible, rancid, preachy and boring film. It’s so boring, actually, that it put Mrs. Jarv to sleep three fucking times while I manfully struggled all the way through to the limp and talky climax. If you enjoy spending time in the company of a complete wanker while being lectured on all sorts of crap then this is the film for you. If you’re not into being bored rigid for a couple of hours than don’t touch with a bargepole. There’s only one rating this can get: The Orangutan of Doom.

That’s me up to date with Cronenberg again, I hope to god he finds some form soon.

Ciao,

Jarv

This, on paper, is a golden idea. Cronenberg has made a career out of Freudian imagery, so making an actual movie based on a well regarded play, based on a well regarded book, about Freud and Jung must have seemed like a perfect fit of director to material. Think Michael Bay and Transformers. Instead, I’m not sure what went wrong here, because this doesn’t feel much like a Cronenberg film, but that might be because this is “new” respectable Cronenberg, not old insane Body Horror Cronenberg. Dave, man, what happened to you? 

I originally meant to see this in the cinema, but promptly forgot about it. Still, better late than never, and now with the advent of Cosmopolis, Cronenberg’s latest, I was prompted to rent A Dangerous Method from Lovefilm. To be honest, part of the reason I didn’t see it, is that I have very limited interest in psychotherapy (other than a mildly esoteric knowledge that Freud only ever had 5 patients and didn’t help any of them), and I feared that A Dangerous Method would be stagey, boring and overly talkative with nothing of substance to actually say.

“By sitting behind you, I am symbolically mounting you like a horny stallion on a brood mare in season”

As mentioned this is based loosely on real events, and particular the deteriorating relationship between Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) and his mentor Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen). The film opens with a deeply disturbed Sabina Speilrein (an obvious hysteric and a painfully overacting Keira Knightly) being admitted into Jung’s less-than-tender care. Gradually Jung effects a talking cure on her, based wholly on Freud’s sexual theories, and she graduates to assisting him while he experiments on his wife. This is effective in her case, because her psychosis (partially based on masochism) is so obviously the result of a sexual episode in her past. Nevertheless, Freud introduces a new patient, the debauched Otto Gross (Vincent Cassell) to Jung, who begins to believe Gross’ nonsense about the purity of hedonism. Next thing you know he’s conducting a full-blown BDSM affair with Sabina, and his relationship with Freud is becoming increasingly strained.

“The expression on my face symbolises that I’ve been a bad girl and am need of spanking. Hard.”

As Jung dabbles further in what Freud dismissively labels “mysticism”, the two men begin to come at loggerheads. Jung is frustrated at Freud’s closed mind and inability to look beyond sex as the root of all mental illness, while Freud grows increasingly weary with Jung’s more unbalanced spiritual antics. Their relationship shatters finally when they meet (in what is clearly meant to be the climactic scene of the film) in Freud’s study and Jung, who believes that “nothing is coincidence” gets over excited when the furniture makes a cracking sound. And then does it again. Freud, needless to say, is unimpressed at this, and the final nail is placed in the mentor-pupil relationship at an editorial meeting arguing about an ancient Pharoah. Freud insists that Jung is symbolically trying to kill his father, and has a heart attack.

“Goddamn it Carl, it’s just a fucking cigar”

This is an astonishingly dreary film. Fassbender plays Jung as an inherently uptight filing clerk, who seems to have the passion of a dead halibut, while Knightly is painful on the screen. I’m not her biggest fan anyway, but she insists on mangling some godawful Bond villain Russian accent, and her mania turn (apparently based on the real tics and mannerisms of lunatics from the time period) is strident, aggravating and completely off-putting. The spanking scenes are almost anaemic in their lack of passion, and I don’t care how much she tries to screw her face up in an attempt to portray orgasmic bliss, it’s almost laughable.

Mortensen’s Freud, on the other hand, is far more successful. Uptight, dogmatic and full of false insights, he’s never on screen without a cigar in his mouth. Cassel is typically over the top as Gross, but by far the most sympathetic performance in the film is Sarah Gordon as Jung’s wife. It’s the only turn that could, in any stretch, be described as warm, and warmth is something the film sorely lacks.

“I am either straining to contain my inner beast, or I may have accidentally soiled myself”

That isn’t to say it isn’t lacking other attributes. For a start, it’s deathly boring for the most part. The problem is that the script is elaborate and overly analytical. Practically everything that comes out of Freud and Jung’s mouths is an analysis of what the other has said in facile and overly simplistic terms. It gets unbelievably boring after a while, and it isn’t helped when Knightly starts getting in on the act by offering her brilliant psychological analysis of Jung’s wife.

“My black coat symbolises that mummy didn’t give me enough attention when I was little”

I don’t really have much to say about this film. Yes, it’s obviously a play on screen, and yes it’s kind of boring. However, what I think really hurts it is that the film feels so wholly dispassionate. It’s one of the coldest Cronenberg films in a long time, and the almost surgical style feels as if the director is sitting in the therapist’s chair behind the characters. Every word, in fact almost every nuance is spelled out on the screen, and it’s only a mystery that Jung doesn’t spit out “but Sigmund, you know what your cigar represents?”

“Look, for the final time, it’s JUST A FUCKING CIGAR”

Overall, this one just didn’t work for me. While it is, bar Knightly who is trying far too hard for an Oscar, well acted, the material seems unable to transcend its stage roots. What we have here is a polished, shiny, professional, but deathly boring movie, and one that doesn’t linger in the memory longer than the closing credits.  A Dangerous Method is Cronenberg at his worst, it’s dispassionate, strangely tame and utterly heartless and I take no pleasure in saying that at the end of the day this is a dull and dreary movie, which even a spot of light sex and spanking can’t enliven. I give it 1 Chang out of 4, and am going to go back to forgetting about it as soon as possible.

One more Cronenberg to catch up on, the Droid-loathed Cosmopolis. I don’t like the book, and I particularly dislike that Twilight cockwomble, so I’m not holding a lot of hope for it.

Until then,

Jarv

Naomi Watts plays Anna, a half-Russian London midwife. Due to a series of unfortunate events, she is present at the birth of Christina, and the death of her mother Tatiana. Tatiana was an underage hooker who was carted in to Accident and Emergency undergoing complications in her pregnancy. All she left behind was a diary, and Anna’s attempt to decipher it draws her into the shady world of the Russian Mafia. Viggo Mortensen plays Nikolai, the Driver, and general bitch of Vincent Cassel’s unhinged Kallil, with something to hide. Eastern Promises charts his rise up the ladder.

This is a good film, there’s no doubt, and the performances are a large part of the reason why. Watts is good at the slightly self-righteous Anna, who is quite clearly out of her depth. Mortensen is a study of understated acting here- this performance is actually very similar to the Stall one from A History of Violence, except with a Russian accent. Cassel, on the other hand, is superb as Kallil, playing an alcoholic psychopath that’s stranded in the closet with no little aplomb. The remainder of the supporting cast, particularly Armin Mueller-Stahl as Semyon are also excellent.

Eastern Promises deals with many, if not all, of Cronenberg’s major themes. It really is a culminatory film on that front. Kallil, for example, is a closet homosexual, desperate to conceal his true identity and act a part in front of his father. Every single character- with the exception of Anna- has reason to conceal something of their identity, and every single one of them, including Anna, changes revealing their real self by the end of the film. Furthermore, the tattoos that the Russians sport that “tell the story of their lives” could come straight from any other Cronenberg film- they really are history carved into live flesh. As a result, his style fits the material, and when brutality is required (surprisingly often, actually) he’s more than happy to step up to the plate and deliver some supreme violence.

This is a fucking brutal film- I can’t think of ever seeing another like it. For example, there’s a sequence early on when a throat is slashed. In most films, the knife slides gently across the skin, and out fountains the blood. Here, the head is held and the killer literally has to saw at the throat to get his desired result. Nasty. Of course, there’s the standout scene of the film: the bath house fight, where Nikolai has to fend off to angry Chechens while completely naked. As a metaphorical stripping down of the character this works a treat, as a cinematic masterclass in violence on screen it’s even more effective. This is a nasty, realistic, brutal fight- punches are thrown and people are stunned, Viggo gets painfully carved up like a Christmas turkey and the end result is 2 dead gangsters and one hospitalised hero. It feels realistic partially because the combatants are so ungainly. There’s none of the slick choreography of your usual Hollywood fare, rather there’s a starkness and simplicity to the scene that amplifies the effect of it- this feels real and therefore unsettling.

Having praised it so highly, and it is a good film, I’m just going to talk about what I think is the major flaw of it. The writing to this film is, for the most part, very good. However, roughly 3/4 of the way through it is revealed that Viggo is an undercover Russian policeman. This was, to be fair, foreshadowed earlier in the film (but I missed it on first watch) and it does go a long way to explain some of his actions, however I honestly believe that this idea is introduced to us far too late. It feels incongruous and unnecessary, and as such confuses the film. It doesn’t matter to the narrative that Nikolai is a policeman, and they don’t go anywhere with this idea so why over-egg the pudding? Especially as the film ends with a Godfather-esque image of Nikolai supping vodka. It feels, the cynic in me suggests, that this was actually being set up for a sequel, as the film functions perfectly adequately without the suggestion that he’s a cop. If anything, it suggests cowardice on behalf of the writers, that they couldn’t just make him a villain that does the right thing because he wants to. I know that’s clichéd but no more so than that he’s an undercover cop. It really marred my enjoyment of the film on first watch, and although it didn’t irk me as much this time, I still believe that it just doesn’t add anything useful and I’d rather it hadn’t been done.

Overall, I do really recommend Eastern Promises. I don’t think it’s quite as good as A History of Violence, but nevertheless is still in the positive column. It’s a brutal, visceral entertaining couple of hours, and if the intention was to make a sequel, I will gladly stump up the cash for it. I give Eastern Promises 3 Changs out of 4.

Right, that’s me finished with Cronenberg. I’m thinking about another interesting director to do this with, so until then,

Ciao,

Jarv

The final list

Can I get a “Hallelujah”? How about a “Praise the Lord”? Finally, your intrepid reviewer has cleared the forsaken films and moved onto Cronenberg’s two most recent films. The first is the much praised A History of Violence. Based on the funnybook by Jack Wagner (creator of Judge Dredd), A History of Violence tells the story of Tom Stall, a humble diner owner in nowhere USA, and his violent past catching up with him.

I am, I have to say, ecstatic to make it to this film as there have been times in the last four when I honestly thought about chucking this series in (round about mid way through Spider, still- it’s always darkest just before dawn). A History of Violence represents an absolutely storming return to form, and probably Cronenberg’s first mainstream film. Not that it doesn’t deal with identity and outside forces intruding on an otherwise peaceful existence but it feels much more commercial than the vast majority of his films. It’s certainly much more accessible.

Viggo Mortenson plays mild-mannered Tom Stall. Tom is a nobody, he lives a normal, mundane life with his wife Edie (an unfairly underrated performance from Maria Bello) and their 2 children, Jack and Sarah. They are as average a family as could be found in middle America. Tom’s closing up his diner one night, when two criminal scumbags invade, and he shows a hitherto hidden aptitude for damaging people. As a result of this, he becomes a local hero, and this draws shadowy figures out of his past into the open. Tom gradually immerses his family in a world of violence before cleaning up the mob back in Philly, and returning home.

This is a really, really good film. Before I gave it a spin the other day, I hadn’t seen it in a few years, but I had some inkling of preferring Eastern Promises. Now I’m not so sure. The acting here is simply outstanding with Ed Harris as the mafiosi particularly good. It’s a really unpleasant and menacing performance, and although the character has every reason to want revenge on “Joey Cusack”, he’s clearly a paint by numbers villain. Aside from him all the acting in this is first rate, but I want to point out Ashton Holmes (now appearing in Nikita) as Jack, a put upon nerd with hidden rage and an inherited talent for brutality.

A History of Violence is not easy to watch. There are several scenes in it not for the squeamish (the throat stamp in particular) and I’m surprised that this passed uncut in the UK (unlike America). Furthermore, the film always feels as if it is being restrained- there are many instances where the impression is of impending bloodshed and it very rarely follows through with it. The best description I can give is that the whole thing feels “taut”.

Unlike other Cronenberg films of this period (looking at you, M. Butterfly) the Canadian’s understated style really complements the action. There is a cold feeling to the film, but that’s perfectly fitting, seeing as we are effectively watching one man reveal a dangerous and frightening past that he has effectively suppressed for  nigh on 20 years. Cronenberg has never been one to shy away from either gore or uncomfortable sex scenes and A History of Violence has a particularly brutal “rough” sex scene in it that is deeply uncomfortable watching. It’s presented without musical accompaniment, and filmed in the most matter-of-fact way that I actually flinched on first watching. It isn’t rape, but it’s damned close and I was left with the lingering suspicion that I’d just watched something horribly unpleasant, and the almost brutal feel to the scene mirrors the actual physical damage inflicted on Tom’s antagonists.

This is a very good film, but it isn’t perfect. I’m not an idiot, and I don’t need things spelled out for me, but there is a lot of dialogue here that hints at some genuinely interesting ideas that are never followed through with- for example Tom says that he “killed Joey” by wandering into the desert and meditating until the anger was gone. This is mentioned in passing and never touched on again. Also, Tom’s past life as Joey sounds like an orgy of mob-related fun, and I almost want to see a prequel to it that ends with him wandering into the desert. Furthermore, his family life, particularly with regard to Jack and his newly discovered badass self feels a bit incomplete (although I challenge anyone not to cheer a bit inside when he batters the bully). This is a pretty minor complaint though.

The other major point of interest in this film is the end. I won’t spoil it, but there’s a certain Godfather feeling to it, and it tantalises the audience by suggesting that this story is far from complete. It’s a great scene, and when I first saw it the audience I was with strongly disliked it because they assumed that nothing was happening. Nothing could be further from the truth here- just because nothing is being said, doesn’t mean that nothing is going on (take note Tarantino). It’s a wonderfully understated ending to a deliberately understated film.

Overall, I really, really do recommend this one. It isn’t one of his best 4 films, but it is very good and it is a merciful relief to see Cronenberg back on song. I give A History of Violence 3 well deserved Changs.

Next up is the brutal Eastern Promises, the last one! I’m almost there…

Until then,

Jarv

The order so far:

I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. It has been absolutely murder wading through these last few films, and I can’t say I’ve enjoyed it in the slightest. Spider is the last of the “second shit period”, and thank the lord this is all out of the way. I’ve waded through drug trip nightmares in Naked Lunch, imbecilic transvestite-shagging weirdos in M. Butterfly, a veritable torrent of filth in Crash and the utter shitness of Existenz, yet this is the only film of this fallow period that I would describe as boring.

And boy is it boring.

Spider is based on a reasonably successful novel about mental illness. I imagine that this was nightmarish to adapt, because it seems that vast tranches of it would involve the main character sitting at a desk writing, trying to decipher his own foggy memories. It was, for some reason that completely escapes me, billed as a horror film. It’s nothing of the sort. If I’m being generous, I would say that it is a hybrid of genres, an amalgamation of kitchen sink working class misery, intense psychological drama and social commentary. The fact that none of these genres work properly here and therefore the film can never transcend its pompous and self-regarding cleverness. This is a bad film.

Dennis ”Spider” Cleg is a recently released (on care in the community) nutjob. He moves back “home” to a really grubby working class tenement, ruled with an iron rod by Lynn Redgrave’s tyrannical landlady (eventually supplemented in Spider’s shattered mind by his archetype of all evil- Miranda Richardson’s tart/ mother).  Spider, however, is flagrantly unequipped to deal with the real world and his confused past gradually begins to overwrite his present as we’re “treated” (ha!) to a “Spider’s eye view” of the events leading up to the tragedy that defined his life. What this actually consists of, is a staggeringly boring working class pastiche, briefly enlivened by a bit of grubby sex and murder, where adult Spider sits in the corner watching and partially mumbling the narration to the action on screen.

This film was clearly a labour of love for all involved. Fiennes found the property and shopped it around many different directors before Cronenberg agreed to do it, and once involved in the project, the Canadian agreed to postpone his fee. Fiennes and Richardson both also worked effectively for free. Personally, I happen to think that everyone involved in this was overpaid, and if it had cost me anything to see it, then I’d have been livid. Having said that, Fiennes is really, really good as Spider. It’s a performance of twitchy intensity, but it’s so intense and so inward looking that I really failed to warm to the character, and furthermore it’s a performance that actually alienated me from proceedings. Richardson is good as the tart/ archetype, and probably has the most fun in the film, and Gabriel Byrne is surly and unpleasant as Spider’s father.

The problem with this film, as I’ve briefly touched on, is that it is both pompous and boring. The novel was, I suspect, intended as some kind of social commentary on the Tory’s disastrous Care in the Community programme. As such, we’re presented here with a clearly mentally ill person, who is obviously a danger to those around him, living in facilities flagrantly not designed for him. There’s a grubby and inadequate atmosphere to this film, and there is nothing resembling levity that could momentarily supply some actual enjoyment to proceedings. It’s just so relentlessly grim and bleak and after a while I just couldn’t take it any more, and had to turn it off for a break.

Secondly, the vast majority of the “action” takes place in Spider’s memory. From early on, it’s transparently obvious that he’s badly deluded and grossly paranoid. His memories are also, obviously, false. There is no way in hell that he could possibly have been present when his father fixes Richardson’s plumbing, or the grubby sex scenes and whatnot. As the tart supplants the mother in his mind (both are played by Richardson, so it’s a tad confusing), the only reasonable explanation that the viewer is left with is that the kid was every bit as nutty as the adult that wears 5 shirts.

Finally, the end of this attempts to be tragic, but misses the mark by so far. It’s meant to be this big curtain tearing back moment, when the audience is finally let in to the fact that the young Spider was nuts. However, by the time it comes it’s obvious both what’s going to happen and what has happened in reality. This, therefore, creates a crushing anticlimax, and in a film as boring as this one, then it’s never going to be more than an enormous failure.

Nevertheless, this is another obviously well made, but eventually terrible film. Cronenberg artfully draws the imaginary working class London, and the performances are all really good (even if off-putting). The problem, I suspect, is that this is another film where his clinical style doesn’t fit the material. Spider is simply not effective as a psychological thriller, and as a direct result of this, we’re left with a dull and tedious treatise on the flamingly obvious.

Overall, I do not recommend this film. I do think it’s marginally better than Existenz, but so is being kicked in the bollocks by an ostrich, on the grounds that Existenz is entirely worthless and Spider is almost entirely worthless. Luckily, this is the last of these “difficult” films that I have to wade through, and I’ve got A History of Violence next. I give Spider 1 Chang, purely for the performances.

Until next time,

Jarv

The order so far:

Let me preface this chapter of the ongoing Cronenberg saga with a few choice words: Existenz is a shit film and a titanic fucking failure. It is creatively, developmentally and otherwise a massive misstep and the making of this film was, I believe, down to a loss of confidence from the usually assured Canadian after the critical and commercial mauling Crash received. It’s as if he returned to his earlier lauded work and produced a milquetoast, watered down, inept version of his earlier nightmarish Videodrome for purely misplaced commercial reasons. As such, Existenz is nuetered, boring, irrelevant and a complete waste of time for both film-maker and viewer.

I can’t get over how enormously fucking lame Existenz is. Seriously, it’s lamer than a quadriplegic. I remembered mildly disliking it and considering it to be a bit pointless, all in all, but this time out having only seen Videodrome a couple of months before enduring this tripe, I watched it with mounting anger and frustration. This is such an utter waste of time and effort, that it actively angered me. I doubt very much if that was the reaction Cronenberg was aiming at, and I do see that Existenz won some awards and whatnot, but this really is not the film for me.

Jennifer Jason Leigh plays Allegra Geller, an allegedly visionary game designer (although she seems to be completely fucking clueless) who survives an assassination attempt at a demonstration of her new “game” Existenz. Jude Law plays marketing trainee Ted Pikul, who becomes entrusted with her safety. For some reason or other, they end up having to test the game and falling down the Rabbit hole to “Existenz” where nothing or everything could be real. The film ends on a ludicrous and unconvincing cop-out, with the final twist being both hugely predictable and massively irritating.

To start with- the acting in this is mediocre to bad. Leigh manages to be incredibly annoying as Geller (her constant badgering of Ted to play her shitey game becomes tiresome very, very quickly). Law (an actor I strongly dislike)  is his usual clueless and useless screen presence. The supporting cast, including some genuine heavyweights such as Ian Holm and Willem Defoe are completely and utterly wasted. The big problem, though, is that for Existenz to be effective you need someone with the obsessed mania of say, James Woods. Neither Law or Leigh have it in them to put in the necessary performance. Leigh, back in her Single White Female days, probably could, but Geller is meant to be the guide to Existenz and is therefore not allowed to. Law, on the other hand, is the real problem with the acting- he’s the Woods character that gets sucked into an alternative world and becomes gradually more and more obsessed etc. The required performance is completely beyond Law, and as a result Pikul is merely a petulant and annoying little bitch.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Existenz is a confused and irritating mess. For a start, the game itself is possibly the worst fucking game ever conceived. Cronenberg clearly didn’t understand the point of games, or VR, and as such he dreamed up a game where the flaming characters plug themselves in and then get to do such exciting things as work gutting frogs on an assembly line. There is no sense of wonder to Existenz, no sense of joy and as such it is completely inconceivable that anyone would willingly play it, let alone become obsessed with it. I admit that this is partially down to the twist ending, but the sole sense of wonder in the film is provided by a two-headed lizard. Videodrome was a sultry and intoxicating experience, that challenged and twisted Woods’ already susceptible sleazy bastard. Pikul, however, is actively anti-gaming. He’s not pushing his personal boundaries, or forcing himself to confront demons, he’s just uninterested. Therefore, it is utterly inconceivable that he would be remotely interested in something as totally dull as Existenz. He just wouldn’t, and Law’s cretinous and uninquisitive version of Pikul, especially,  would not even give it the time of day.

Furthermore, the twist ending is hugely predictable, it is signposted by the two-headed monster, and the teeth gun and other touches, but the big give away is that Geller, allegedly the sole creator and Existenz-maestro, hasn’t a fucking clue what’s going on when they’re “playing” (I can’t think of a word for what they’re actually doing) Existenz. Again, as a result of this, Cronenberg didn’t know where the hell he was going so abruptly stops the action, just when it’s getting interesting, and has Geller proclaim herself to be “The Winner”, before revealing the film’s big twist. It’s just terrible. Furthermore, there are touches of Geller complaining about some of the characters that she, apparently, created that suggest that she does know every line of code in it. So which is it?

There are some nice Cronenberg images such as the bioport and the games pod, and the odd vomit inducing image (Law’s back absorbing the interface or eating the dinner in the Chinese Restaurant), but even these touches are bland and pointless compared to the epic Stomach Vagina in Videodrome. The insertion of the back plug visually suggests sodomy, but this potentially interesting idea is hastily backed away from. As for the pods themselves, they glisten and shiver in a revolting sexual manner (particularly when being suggestively stroked by Leigh), however, this interesting idea is also not particularly investigated.

Overall, I do not recommend Existenz at all. I do recommend Videodrome, but this is just such a colossal failure of a movie that I struggle to think of redeeming features. It’s ill-conceived, redundant and almost entirely pointless. The only possible purpose of Existenz, in my opinion, is to serve as a warning to any hack out there stupid enough to attempt to remake Videodrome- don’t do it. If Cronenberg himself couldn’t do it, then you bastards don’t stand a chance. Overall I give it an extremely generous 1 Chang.

Next up is another stinker: the coma-inducing Spider. Thankfully, though, it’s the last one of the second shit period.

It’s been real, as opposed to Existenz-tial,

Jarv

For some completely inexplicable reason I’ve now seen this film four times, and I can’t say any one of those times could remotely be called enjoyable. Crash is, unquestionably, one of the most viscerally unpleasant films that it has been my misfortune to sit through. It’s an exercise in nihilistic misery and an examination of perversion with absolutely nothing insightful to say about the subject.

Crash was a bit of a cause  célèbre in Britain. It was instantly banned in an enormous overreaction, and as such garnered “unmissable” status that the film simply doesn’t warrant. The “official” history of the Crash fiasco can only be described as disingenuous revisionist bullshit. The BBFC, on the back of the Cannes Award, bottled an outright ban. Instead, and I can’t prove this, the various councils that films have to get by were instead pressured into withholding release. Notably, Westminster (and if you can’t get it released in London, you can’t get it anywhere) actually did apply the ban hammer. It eventually received a full cinema release in 1997, over a year later.

None of this was remotely on my radar.  I was living in South Africa at the time, and I misguidedly took a girl to see it, based entirely on the fact that it won a prize. And I was driving. Needless to say, this was not a lasting relationship, and to this day, I’m convinced that she thinks I had some kind of sick plan for the evening. I probably did, in hindsight, but not one involving me totalling my only mode of transport for jollies. I then saw it in the cinema on its UK release after being overruled by the group who were all going for some kind of endurance “shock me” challenge.

All digressions aside, the BBFC actually went through quite an interesting process before granting it’s certificate- they actually consulted with shrinks and amputees. The public outcry that greeted their decision to pass it uncut, could only be described as a furore, and in the fading days of the last Tory government, the headline chasing scum that masquerade as politicians managed to squeeze a fair amount of “ban this filth” mileage out of it. Incidentally, the lying bastards could (under the Video Nasties Act of 1984) have actually banned it themselves, but that would be far too much effort for too little gain. Furthermore, Crash attracted a ridiculously pompous critical reaction here, with Alexander Walker in particular calling it “beyond the bounds of depravity”.

So, is Crash that bad? This is the only real question that I’ll attempt to answer here, and it’s the only one that matters. Crash is a narratively straightforward film. James Spader plays James Ballard, a desensitised film producer who is sucked into the sordid world of auto-erotica. That’s it- the whole plot, which I’m convinced only exists to set up the various sexual shenanigans.

The acting in Crash is, for the most part, fine. Elias Koteas as the “enigmatic” (read: fucked up) Vaughan is a marvelously oily presence, and Debra Kara Unger is suitably frantic as Ballard’s wife. Rosanna Arquette gives memorable support in a smashed and twisted frame and Holly Hunter is a shining example of mental illness on film. The only weak link is Spader himself. I’ve never liked him as a leading man, I always find him to be a cypher on the screen, just lacking presence. However, here, it is, while not a particularly good performance, quite effective. Spader is the “straight” man to the others mania, and his blandness serves as a nice counter to the other characters.

The writing and score (again by Howard Shore) are fine. This is a perfectly acceptable attempt at translating Ballard (possibly the 20th Century’s most overrated author) to the big screen. Crash is typical Ballard material, who (with the exception of Empire of the Sun) cannot resist putting something in the way of fetish sex into a novel (The Kindness of Women features the line “Bugger me Daddy! Pixie wants to be buggered!”). Personally, I don’t like Ballard’s novels. His alleged masterpieces Cocaine Nights and Supercannes leave me cold, and I think he’s quite often shocking for the sake of it, and disguises an absence of anything to say behind narrative pyrotechnics. I’ll happily debate this for hours, if I’m honest, but he really isn’t one of my favourite authors.

Cronenberg, however, is stylistically perfect for Ballard’s material. He has a coldness, an almost surgical style that allows the depravity present in the source to play out almost without comment on the screen. Sex in Crash isn’t remotely pleasurable, instead it is a driving compulsion, an absolute and all-consuming mania that the characters are powerless against. Not to mention that as they succumb to temptation the densistisation process accelerates and the film ends with the conclusion that death is inevitably for these people. It’s pretty nihilistic stuff.

Crash is also harrowing. There are many, many sequences of this film that are simply squirm/ vomit inducing stuff. Cronenberg knows damned well what he’s doing here, and there is an overwhelming sense of cynicism and weariness to the film. The camera isn’t commenting on what we can see, but there are several touches of unsubtlety that leave it in no doubt what we are watching. The sequences that leap to mind are the notorious scar-fucking scene (about as sexy as an ugly chick with a turd on her face), Elias Koteas beating and shagging Ballard’s wife while he watches then wiping vaginal fluid on the front seat of the car, and the utterly gratuitous breast shot of Holly Hunter during the initial crash.

So, is it actually that bad? Well, frankly, yes. There’s been a ludicrous comparison to soft porn made here, and Crash is in no way Pornographic. The sex here is a visible manifestation of underlying mental issues, and not only is it (as a direct result) incredibly difficult to watch, it’s also damned explicit. I know that since Crash was released there has been a rising tide of erect cock and penetration on-screen that has blurred the boundaries between hard and soft core (Sex and Lucia, Romance, Baise Moi, Intimacy, 9 Songs) but at the time, this was as hard-core as it was possible to get. The sequence on the back seat, in particular, looks like full-blown digital penetration (and the wiped hand confirms that). Crash is an explicit and unenjoyable film, the visible manifestation of an obsession and an all round unpleasant cinema experience.

It’s also clearly an extremely good film. I know this sounds oxymoronic given what I’ve just written, but it makes you think, provides a talking point and exudes a real sense of quality. However, having said that, I don’t think it’s worth the furore, and I also do not consider it to be a film I’d ever return to. But I would say that, seeing as I did last time.

To conclude, Crash is an obviously well made film. It’s also a shocking and extreme work. However, it’s a harrowing and unpleasant ride and not one that I would willingly recommend. It’s Cronenberg, in some ways, at his finest, a superb marriage of a director’s style to the most apt material and is a fitting work in his canon. It is also, however, a revolting and distressing time, that reeks of cynicism and nihilism. As a result, I give it 2 Changs.

It is, however, infinitely better than Paul “Rich white guy so clearly knows a lot about racism” Haggis’ loathsome and disgraceful Oscar winner.

Next up is the colossal failure of Existenz- like Videodrome, but for pussies.

Until then,

Jarv

The order so far

1. Dead Ringers (4 Changs)
2. The Fly (4 Changs)
3. Videodrome (4 Changs)
4. Scanners (3.5 Changs)
5. The Brood (3 Changs)
6. The Dead Zone (3 Changs)
7. Shivers (2 Changs)
8. Crash (2 Changs)
9. M. Butterfly (1.5 Changs)
10. Naked Lunch (1.5 Changs)
11. Rabid (1 Changs)
12. Fast Company (Orangutan of Doom)

Christ, I don’t know where to begin with this one. I’ve tried to write it a few times without spoiling, but have been forced to conclude that the only sensible way to review this film is to review the spoiler in the film. I’ve come to this conclusion for two reasons: it’s fucking obvious, and furthermore it’s all over the internets. Nevertheless, on with the review…

Cronenberg loves making films about identity. Dead Ringers, A History of Violence and others all involve central characters that aren’t at home in their own skin. They all have identity issues of some description, but M. Butterfly has it in spades.

Jeremy Irons plays one of the most incredibly stupid people on the planet- based on a real idiot, apparently- called René Gallimard. René is a low-level diplomat in Peking in 1964 who gets drawn into an ill-advised affair with spy/ opera singer Song played by John (yes, you did read that correctly) Lone. René, despite being married and sexually active, for some inexplicable reason believes Song to be a woman. I’ll come to why this is completely preposterous in a second, but this is the crux of the film: moron shags tranny. Song tells René that she’s pregnant so disappears for a few months, before returning with a half chinese child that René absolutely believes is his. Eventually he’s sent back to Paris, before Song reappears and it all goes completely wrong (I did originally write “awry” here, but seeing as the clueless tool has been shagging a guy for years that he thinks is a woman I would argue that things are already fairly awry).

This is, actually, based on a noted play as well as real life, and I can see why the subject matter attracted Cronenberg, but he is absolutely the wrong man for the job. His films tend towards the sterile, and in a film about sexually ambiguous morons then the icy, almost surgical, atmosphere he conjures up fails to elicit sympathy and as such fails as a tragedy.

Having said that, M. Butterfly is quite well written. It tends towards the didactic and preachy on occasion, particularly regarding imperialism and white male attitudes to Oriental women, but on the whole the dialogue, particularly between Song and his/ her handler seem credible enough, and are well drawn enough to allow insight into Song’s mind- who is clearly enjoying the hold he/she has over the hapless tit René.

Jeremy Irons is on good form again playing René with a haughty arrogance that suits the character well- René has to be an arrogant tool, because anyone  working in China at that time with even the slightest cultural knowledge (not to mention functioning eyesight) should know that men play the female parts in Chinese Opera. Chinese Opera, incidentally, is a dreadful cacophony most akin to a sadist boiling a live cat.

Nevertheless, I digress.

The rest of the supporting cast are all good, in particular Ian Richardson is splendid as René’s bureau chief, but he has a long and distinguished CV playing precisely these sort of roles. John Lone, however, has the most demanding role in the film as Song, and if this film were a radio play then he would probably be quite good. As it is, film is a visual medium and this is where the problems start. Before I go on with this- here’s a screenshot of John Lone (who Mrs. Jarv commented was “built like a boxer” in disgust):

Honestly, does this look a like a fucking woman to anyone?

Seriously, how was Lone (good actor that he undoubtedly is) cast in this? He’s the least convincing woman on-screen outside of a Carry-On movie. This mistaken gender schtick can be done to good effect but for it to be successful then the man cast in the drag role has to at the very least look androgynous. Lone most certainly does not meet this criteria. He is not the guy in The Crying Game (a film that deals with similar issues but is far more successful). This completely disastrous piece of casting utterly scuppers the film, as it is absolutely inconceivable that René could possibly mistake Song for a woman- and no amount of “modesty” can make up for this.

This is going to be a fairly short review, because once I’ve pointed out the big failure of the film (casting an obvious guy in a role screaming for ambiguity) then the conceit simply collapses around the cast. There is no way that Irons, as good an actor as he is, can convincingly portray René as someone that doesn’t know that his “Butterfly” is a guy, because every time they’re on screen together it’s fucking patently obvious that what we have here is a moron and a man in a dress. The script can make as many clever references to the Opera Madame Butterfly (which forms the majority of the score) or to classic works such as Epicoene, but it’s a completely pointless exercise because Lone is so obviously a fucking guy.

To conclude, this isn’t a bad film as such, but it is an icy cold one and the cretinous piece of casting does such damage that I can’t really recommend it. As a curio, it is probably worth a look, and if you’re a completist then it isn’t a boring (actually, it’s unintentionally funny on occasion) 100 minutes. However, as I say, M. Butterfly doesn’t really work and can very easily be missed. If you do feel an overwhelming need to see a film about a man falling in love with another man in a dress, then go and find The Crying Game. I give this one and a half Changs- competent but a bit of a failure.

At least it’s more coherent than Naked Lunch.

Next up is the utterly foul Crash- I’m going to settle this “soft core” nonsense once and for all- even if I have to take a wire brush to my eyes afterwards.

Until then,

Jarv

The order so far:

1. Dead Ringers (4 Changs)
2. The Fly (4 Changs)
3. Videodrome (4 Changs)
4. Scanners (3.5 Changs)
5. The Brood (3 Changs)
6. The Dead Zone (3 Changs)
7. Shivers (2 Changs)
8. M. Butterfly (1.5 Changs)
9. Naked Lunch (1.5 Changs)
10. Rabid (1 Changs)
11. Fast Company (Orangutan of Doom)

I now return to the Cronenberg series after what feels like an eternity and I can’t say I’m taking much pleasure from the next few films. Naked Lunch is the starting point for “the second shit period” and although it isn’t as bad as I remembered it being, I can’t say that I actually enjoyed watching it.

Naked Lunch follows the adventures of exterminator Bill Lee, who becomes addicted to the powder he uses to kill cockroaches, shoots his wife in the head, moves to Interzone (flagrantly Tangiers in the 50’s) and becomes a sort of writer. His encounters are completely and utterly bizarre, featuring talking insect typewriters, homosexual Mugwumps, and a completely and utterly surreal American couple.

If that brief synopsis sounds fragmented, well, that’s because it is. Naked Lunch is a novel that was frequently described as unfilmable. This is, I’m sorry to say, absolutely true, as what we have here is not Naked Lunch. Without boring on too severely about the history of the book, the reason it is unfilmable is intrinsic to the novel. William Burroughs was a serious heroin user with homosexual tendencies. He was resident in a gay brothel in Tangiers and fucked out of his mind. Whilst high, he scribbled fragments of random thoughts on paper, which were then assembled at a later date by Beat Poet Allan Ginsberg. As a result, Naked Lunch is not so much a novel, rather it is a series of completely unconnected but compelling passages that touch upon the themes important to Burroughs.

Cronenberg was never going to be able to film this- it’s impossible. Instead, and this isn’t a bad idea, he filmed what he called “a response” to the novel. The film Naked Lunch contains a few set pieces from the book (the mugwump buggering the young boy to death, Lee’s employment, Dr. Benway and so forth), but interlaced it with characters and events from Burroughs life. For example, 2 minor characters are clearly modelled on Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, the American ex-patriots are based on Paul Bowles, author of The Sheltering Sky, and his wife Jane and the “William Tell” scene is straight from Burroughs biography, although he was never tried for murder.

If I am honest, then I’ll try to review the film on its own merits- and the first one is that the casting and acting are top-notch. Peter Weller plays Lee, and is superb as the man gradually descending into the very depths of insanity and addiction. He’s ably supported by Roy Scheider, Ian Holm and Julian Sands and all the acting in this film is really first-rate. Judy Davis is also excellent in a demanding dual role, putting in a convincingly grimy performance.

Secondly, the creature effects on the typewriter bugs with weird orifice-like mouths all look sufficiently creepy and are all well done. Clark Nova (Lee’s controller), the most realised of the bugs, is extremely well designed and operated. Other effects, particularly the mugwumps, aren’t anywhere near as good, but credit where it’s due.

Thirdly, there is a dry comedy operating throughout the film (Lee’s explanation of his new typewriter as “dispensing two types of intoxicating fluid when you write something good” is genuinely witty). This is, funnily enough, appropriate to the novel as it laces scabrous satire with some very funny jokes (AJ and the baboon), and Cronenberg does as good a job as is possible of translating Burroughs sardonic humour to the screen.

However, that doesn’t mean that Naked Lunch is an entirely successful film. Cronenberg made several terrible decisions that directly impact on my enjoyment. Firstly, and by far the most important, is that Naked Lunch is a novel that I really like, however, that doesn’t mean that I want to see entire passages of it narrated on-screen. There are several interminable scenes where the Ginsberg character reads out a passage straight from the novel, and Lee himself tells two lengthy anecdotes that come straight off the page, and weirdly result in a jarring atonal laughter from the other characters. The problem here is that it is weird, and more than a little boring, listening to the lengthy story of the man who’s arsehole learned to talk. It’s also lazy, which is incongruous given how much effort was clearly put into the attempt at a coherent film.

Secondly, although it does deal with Burroughs’ themes of addiction etc, it feels deeply unsatisfactory and more than a little bit pretentious. The ending is completely and utterly anticlimactic, nonsensical and frustrating. Upon reflection, it’s arguable that the film could only end the way it does, however, why introduce the idea of Annexia at this late stage? All that serves to do is remind me on how much they chose to omit from the film.

To add to the jarring and pretentious atmosphere of the film, Howard Shore’s score is a dreadful atonal jazz number, that while appropriate for a work based on one of the pivotal figures of the Beat generation, simply adds to the sense of “what the fuck am I watching, and why am I watching it?” It’s basically everything a score shouldn’t be: intrusive, distracting, irritating and overpowering. Personally, I’m not an experimental Jazz fan at the best of times, but the score to Naked Lunch pushed me into agreement with Roddy Doyle that Jazz is little more than “musical wanking”.

Overall, do I recommend Naked Lunch? This is a tough one, as I can’t wholeheartedly say I do. This is a film that I want to like as I love the novel and love the director, but it’s one that I just don’t. I do, I have to say, admire the work and sheer effort that it took to get this film to the screen, but in all honesty I just consider Naked Lunch to be a failure and am reluctantly forced to agree with those that said the novel should not, and could not, be adapted to the screen. I rate a sterling attempt at an impossible task with a deeply disappointed 1.5 Changs out of 4.

It just doesn’t work.

Next up is one I’ve never heard of and am having problems finding so it may be a while so…

Until next time,

Jarv

The order so far:

1. Dead Ringers (4 Changs)
2. The Fly (4 Changs)
3. Videodrome (4 Changs)
4. Scanners (3.5 Changs)
5. The Brood (3 Changs)
6. The Dead Zone (3 Changs)
7. Shivers (2 Changs)
8. Naked Lunch (1.5 Changs)
9. Rabid (1 Changs)
10. Fast Company (Orangutan of Doom)

Apparently, I’m not equipped to review this film for 2 reasons. The first is, obviously, that I’m a colossal dunderhead with sensibilities fit for watching a dwarf eat his own head, but entirely unfit for watching subtle, psychological horror (and that I keep maintaining that Dead Ringers isn’t a horror film, but a tragedy). The second, and far more important one, is that I’m male and therefore the film doesn’t hit me in the genitals the same way that it does with women. For example, I have no fear at all of the gynaecologist.

Therefore, with no further ado, I hand you over to Mrs. Jarv. So behave yourselves, else I’ll set the boreworms on you.

When I was asked by Jarv if I wanted to do something for Moonwolves I envisioned reviewing something fluffy or girly, like Sex in the City. Don’t get me wrong, I intensely dislike most romcoms especially those starring Kate Hudson (wow does she represent lowest common dominator of suburban housewife aspiration) but Dead Ringers? As my Uncle Roger who was very fond of the occasional joint would have said “That is some heavy shit man” and I think that applies even by Cronenberg’s standards. One of the things to bear in mind from the beginning is that most women will not experience this film the same way as your average man. Therefore in good conscience I must start with a warning to all women reading this, after watching this you may feel slightly violated and if you have a fear about visiting the gynaecologist this is not the film for you.

 The story revolves around twin gynaecologists Elliot and Beverly Mantle (both played by Jeremy Irons) loosely based on the real life gynaecologists Stewart and Cyril Marcus. Both highly intelligent and wildly successful they run a prestigious fertility clinic in Toronto. In a flashback sequence we see that even in childhood the brothers were obsessed with surgery, reproduction and had an eerie mental connection. Fast forward into the future and Elliot and Beverly are sharing a medical practice, an apartment and most troublingly their women (often with out said woman’s knowledge).

 Elliot is the confident, social and domineering twin that gives the acceptance speeches and woos the ladies while Bev is the passive academic who carries out the research that has made their reputation in medical circles and is consigned to Elliot’s sloppy seconds from the bedroom. They are perceived as two halves of a whole by not only themselves but by those around them. They are constantly introducing themselves or being referred to as “The Mantle Twins” and it is this perceived lack of distinct identity that foreshadows their demise.

 This delicate balance is unsettled by over-the-hill, pill popping actress Claire Niveau. The character is brilliantly portrayed by Geneviève Bujold who captures perfectly the insane look of the type of woman you see on Lifetime TV discussing her third unsuccessful IVF treatment. It turns out that Claire is a “trifurcate” meaning her reproductive system has “three doorways,” which means she probably will not be able to have children. On a side note I looked up “trifurcate” and as I suspected this term has never had any application to gynaecology and was re-applied by Cronenberg. I have a high tolerance for weird and disgusting shit but really, that is just gross. Anyway, she comes to the twin’s famous clinic for help. Upon inspection (I am crossing my legs as I write this) Beverly proceeds to fall madly in love with her. This precipitates an increasingly gross game of sloppy seconds which in turns leads to the twin’s relationship unravelling into drug fuelled black hole of angst and their truly horrific deaths.

 One of the things to love (or hate) about this film is the numerous opportunities put to good use everything you learned in your freshman year psychology class. To name but a few…women’s anxiety about children and fertility, prescription drug addiction, co-dependency, twin separation anxiety, God complex, self harm ect ect ect…

If abnormal psychology is not your bag then stick around for Jeremy Irons amazing performance. There is no Lyndsey Lohan ‘I know who killed me’ nonsense with the altered hair styles, accents and wardrobe to guide us. Beverly and Elliot’s hairstyles are identical, their cloths (1980’s smart casual, you know sweater vests and the like) interchangeable. It is Jeremy Irons performance that differentiates the two and what a performance it is! One word for it… Magnificent. We know from the moment he opens his mouth which twin he is playing without any of the usual crutches. He elevates what could potentially have been a stomach churning exploration of the perverse into something that is surprising touching and tragic. One can overlook the weird gynaecological instruments and freaky fetish sex and appreciate the slow painful destruction of two brothers who cannot live with each other and cannot live without each other….literally.

 As my Uncle Roger used to say…. Deep Man.

 Not a lot for me to add really, aside from that she didn’t mention the horrific umbilical cord nightmare, or that while the end of this film is deeply predictable, it’s also very, very sad. Finally, because no review of this film is complete without this- I present the show-stopper of Dead Ringers, and something that women everywhere fear:

Gynaecological Instruments for Operating on Mutant Women.

So, that’s nearly me done with this review- just one final note to say that I honestly believe Dead Ringers is an essential film and I give it a well-earned maximum: 4 Changs.

Next up, it’s the amazingly ill-advised adaptation of Naked Lunch, and unfortunately, me again.

Now she’d better finish that Avatar review…

Until next time,

Jarv

The order so far:

1. Dead Ringers (4 Changs)
2. The Fly (4 Changs)
3. Videodrome (4 Changs)
4. Scanners (3.5 Changs)
5. The Brood (3 Changs)
6. The Dead Zone (3 Changs)
7. Shivers (2 Changs)
8. Rabid (1 Changs)
9. Fast Company (Orangutan of Doom)