Chances are that if you were not among the audience in one of the two sold out screenings of "Crash" this past Friday night in Loew auditorium, someone you know who was there has told you about it.
This is not the sort of film that one can be afford to be neutral on, rather it demands a reaction from people; and once you've reacted to Cronenberg's warped world, you are not likely to avoid mentioning it in passing. "Crash" is like a nightmare in that respect -- it is at once so overwhelming and disturbing that you feel the need to tell someone about it so that you yourself can vainly attempt to make sense of it all...
Based on a novel by J.G. Ballard, "Crash" is the latest work of director David Cronenberg (who in the past has translated weirdness to the screen in films such as "The Fly," "Dead Ringers" and "Naked Lunch") and has been the source of much controversy and media attention since its release in theatres last month.
A show-stopper at the 1996 Cannes Film Festival where it won the Special Jury Prize for "originality, daring and audacity", "Crash" was not without its complications even there. Apparently the film was considered so unconventional (by Cannes standards, mind you) and perverse that two of the jurors on the panel abstained from voting as a gesture which would hopefully disassociate themselves from the deviant aura of the film.
At the heart of this subject matter which has earned "Crash" all this notoriety and an NC-17 rating -- cars and sex; a combination that has had mainstream society in a tizzy since the dawn of the drive-in movie and make-out point.
Not just cars and sex, but the use of the automobile as an extension of one's sexuality and sex organs, both physically and psychologically. The car crash as a bridge with the metaphysical; a release of energy which becomes an orgasmic experience.
"Crash" is about sexuality redefining itself in a post-modern world. A world in which technology, as an everyday extension of sexuality, is constantly dulling the senses with new and improved kicks. Man's tendency towards voyeurism, the Freudian concept of the death instinct, the cult of personality and the cohesiveness of automobiles and popular American myth making, the presupposed compatibility of pain, danger and sexual pleasure, existentialist romance; these elements are all woven together into the cinematographic landscape of "Crash," if one cares to delve beyond the twisted metal and shards of glass on the surface.
In between all the metaphors and isms, crashes and sex, there are shades of character development and a faintly perceivable thread of a narrative. James Spader coolly plays the role of the James Ballard, a disenchanted movie-producer whose life, body and perceptions are irrevocably altered by a car accident.
After the accident, Ballard explores the tantalizing intricacies of car sex with the wife (passenger at the time) of the man who was killed in the initial accident (Holly Hunter in a convincing role which is a far cry from "The Piano").
When we first meet Ballard and his wife, Catherine, (played by the sultry Deborah Unger who just oozes sensuality) they are relating to each other sexually through role-playing games where their extramarital sexual conquests feed their own perverse desires.
An explosive chain of events links everyone together through the dementia of Vaugn, played by Elias Koteas, a photographer of crashes/founder of his own school of thought which he names "benevolent psychopathology" which is driven by an erotic obsession with the mangling of flesh by metal. In the circle of Vaugn's twisted friends is Rosanna Arquette as Gabriele a crash victim and junkie who sports leg braces and a body cast as if it were fetish gear.
This motley crew of control freaks gets involved in some dangerous play which leads them into some of the uncharted regions of human eroticism. Along the way, of course, there is sex, in abundance and of such an explicit nature that borders on pornography. There are a few scenes that would make Roman Polanski blush, so a cold shower is highly recommended before taking in this feature.
The highly stylized cinematography meshes together blue-chrome visuals with film noire characteristics. The product is a temporal normlessness, and with dialogue delivered in mantra-like fashion interspersed between the eerie sounds of Howard Shore's synthetic score, Cronenberg succeeds in creating an appropriately surreal backdrop for the content matter.
Cronenberg believes that the primary function of art, is "to do violence to that little cocoon that we sometimes find ourselves enveloped in." In that capacity, "Crash" is one hell of a monument to the art world.
To say that the film has no redeeming qualities beyond its shock value would be unfair; but to say that "Crash" is guaranteed to be a culturally enriching experience for you and the whole family would be a gross overstatement.
Irrespective of how one defines your notion of art, one thing can be said for certain: "Crash" appeals to that hidden self inside everyone that cannot resist slowing down to gawk at a car wreck for whatever morbid, curious reasons that be...
