Death, Decay, Growth, Circulation

Some notes on the new Cronenberg, in lieu of an essay I cannot write.

I saw the new Cronenberg last night, The Shrouds. It hasn’t even opened in theaters yet in America, but I saw it just the same; a pre-retail leak from sources unknown, very mysterious, very problematic to those of certain dispositions (not mine) – the torrent has already been scrubbed from the tracker I obtained it from, out of justified caution, presumably (these sort of leaks can and have resulted in criminal charges, and other sorts of unwanted attention). It’s a moot point, though, of course: the file is out there now, and it will continue to circulate. I suspect there is some sort of comparison to be drawn here between the particular characteristics of this illicit circulation and the morbid, bodily preoccupations of the film itself – how different is its decentralized proliferation of filehoster links, all of them derived from the same only-briefly-extant source, really, from the inexplicable nodules of bone which Vincent Cassel/“Karsh”/Cronenberg discovers growing on his dead wife’s decomposing skeleton?

Okay, probably fairly different. And the temporal register is wrong: premature, not postmortem; whatever strange harmony there is to be found here will be obliterated as soon as the film drops on streaming, a Blu-ray is released, etc. But I do think there is a harmony here – and perhaps the inevitability of its obliteration is part of it, too. Anyway, it’s a great film, certainly one of the very best of the past year, and I suspect one of the very best of Cronenberg’s career (we’ll see if I still believe this when it’s no longer fresh and exciting). I considered attempting a full piece on it – there’s enough here for a whole book, probably – but the fact of the matter is that at this film’s core are thoughts and experiences which I will not know for decades, if I ever do at all, and I have the humility to recognize when I’m not the man for the job. I do not envy the task of any professional critic in my age bracket who finds themselves assigned to review this old man’s film about death and decay and enduring desire – I suspect the somewhat muted reception it has received on the festival circuit (or, such is my impression of its reception, at least) is in no small part due to the fact that almost everyone who has written about it is painfully out of their depth. As far as I can tell, though, this is a work which is serious and substantial in a way that puts to shame most of what gets passed off as such these days, and I believe that in time it will be recognized as a major work by a major artist. Beyond that, I will venture no further claims. Ask me again in 40 years.