Disturbing yet allegorical, emotionally shallow yet erotically fierce, David Cronenberg's crushingly warped world of sex, cars and sex in cars isn't for those who like their films "middle-of-the-road". Try "off- road". And then some, for Cronenberg's Crash is a perverse, surreal and psychosexual illustration of the apparent links between danger, death and sex with clout that, for all its scandal and sexcitement, ultimately fails to get into top gear.
James Spader plays horny TV exec' James Ballard who, following a near fatal car crash with an equally horny Dr. Helen Remington (Holly Hunter), finds himself lured into an uncanny cult where ex-crash victims are bound together by a kinetic lust for the very machines, circumstances and imagery that disfigured their bodies and minds.
Taking contentious themes and stretching them to their outer limits such as scopophilia, sadomasochism, serial monogamy, self mutilation and homosexuality, Cronenberg crafts and explores a world driven by auto- eroticism, sexual-oddities and libidinal hungers that feeds on the messages, morals and conventions of the mainstream. A move that'll come to the delight of some but, inevitably, the complete and utter disgust of others. Those who fall into the latter camp: don't bother with Crash. You'd do well to last twenty minutes. The former: sit back, interpret and try to enjoy.
With seemingly more scenes of a sexual nature than dialogue (I counted three in the first two minutes), Crash is not for those who bare a faint or chaste heart. It's a prude's worst nightmare. It's provocative, distinct and sexy; a libidinal indie smash of Bunuel-cum-Lynch-like verve whose characters have somewhat idealistic and incalculable sex drives superior to those of a celibate sex addict set loose in Amsterdam. The result? Cinematic smut in pure overdrive that depraves and astounds.
James Spader plays horny TV exec' James Ballard who, following a near fatal car crash with an equally horny Dr. Helen Remington (Holly Hunter), finds himself lured into an uncanny cult where ex-crash victims are bound together by a kinetic lust for the very machines, circumstances and imagery that disfigured their bodies and minds.
Taking contentious themes and stretching them to their outer limits such as scopophilia, sadomasochism, serial monogamy, self mutilation and homosexuality, Cronenberg crafts and explores a world driven by auto- eroticism, sexual-oddities and libidinal hungers that feeds on the messages, morals and conventions of the mainstream. A move that'll come to the delight of some but, inevitably, the complete and utter disgust of others. Those who fall into the latter camp: don't bother with Crash. You'd do well to last twenty minutes. The former: sit back, interpret and try to enjoy.
With seemingly more scenes of a sexual nature than dialogue (I counted three in the first two minutes), Crash is not for those who bare a faint or chaste heart. It's a prude's worst nightmare. It's provocative, distinct and sexy; a libidinal indie smash of Bunuel-cum-Lynch-like verve whose characters have somewhat idealistic and incalculable sex drives superior to those of a celibate sex addict set loose in Amsterdam. The result? Cinematic smut in pure overdrive that depraves and astounds.