BEND OVER, I'LL DRIVE:
CARS, SCARS,
AND TWISTED [METAL] DESIRES
Has anyone but me noticed that, over the last coupla years and films, David Cronenberg seemed to be disappearing up his own asshole? I mean, after a decade-long reign as "Canada's Baron of Blood," culminating with the box-office hit THE FLY, he offers up DEAD RINGERS (one of the coldest, bleakest descents into insanity ever filmed), NAKED LUNCH (an, um, "interesting" approach to Burroughs' otherwise unfilmable novel), and M. BUTTERFLY (did anyone actually bother to release this theatrically, much less see it?).
So now, just a month after that other weird-film-making David (Lynch) comes out of his career slump with the fairly well-received LOST HIGHWAY, Cronenberg offers up a film about people getting horny from watching -- and participating in -- car crashes. It got a special award at Cannes, was banned (until just recently) in Britain, and the Stateside debut was held up for a year when Ted Turner found out one of his subdivisions (Fine Line Films) was releasing it and tried to have it quashed on general bluenosed principles.
And -- oh yeah, it got an NC-17, which puts it in the same cinematic "detention hall" as SHOWGIRLS, DICE RULES and MAN BITES DOG.
But as I mentioned in my review of SCANNERS, I've learned to appreciate Cronenberg, even at his most obtuse. And having missed my chance to see LOST HIGHWAY in its lone area screening, I vowed not to let history repeat itself and went out of my way to catch CRASH (1996) this past weekend. (Especially after hearing a bitchy clerk at the local Borders denounce it ["Oh, it's garbage, and how could Holly Hunter lower herself to do this, etc."]. The last time I heard a pan that vituperative was Rex Reed slamming VIDEODROME, which I loved.)
My conclusion? Cronenberg is still disappearing up his own asshole, but he's found an interesting branch of his small intestine this time around.
Meet the Ballards, film-producer James (quintessential yup James Spader) and wife Catherine (Deborah Kara Unger, an icy blend of cult faves Theresa Russell and Mary Woronov), who have the sort of marital problems most couples only dream of: each gets to ball other people (though neither gets any pleasure from it), then come home and ball each other while discussing the day's conquests (though neither gets any etc.). This cozy little lover's nest gets temporarily derailed one rainy night when James, trying to drive and review storyboards at the same time, loses control of his vehicle and slams head-on into the car driven by Dr. Helen Remington (Hunter). Helen's husband is killed (being flung through two windshields will do that to you!) and both she and James are badly injured. In the hospital, James has a close encounter of the weird kind with Vaughn (EXOTICA's Elias Koteas), who takes an almost fetishistic interest in James' mangled leg.
Once back in the real world, James and Helen encounter each other again when both show up at the police pound in search of their mangled cars; driving back to Helen's job, a near-miss on the highway so arouses them both that they pull into the nearest parking garage for a frantic, front-seat screw. James realizes that the crash has flipped some kind of switch in his psyche; already obsessed with the traffic patterns outside his apartment, he now finds himself turned on by sex in cars, car crashs -- and even both together. Helen, meanwhile, introduces James to a secret car-crash sect led by Vaughn, who stage recreations of celebrity smack-ups (James Dean's is shown, Jayne Mansfield's is in the planning stage) sans helmets or safety equipment. Before long, Catherine is "along for the ride," and James is splitting his time (and tool!) between her, Helen, and Vaughn's girlfriend/protoge Gabrielle (Roseanne Arquette), who's been in so many crashes she wears a full-body brace.
Vaughn is one of the creepiest weirdos in Cronenberg's rogues gallery: equal parts scientist (he once designed traffic-control systems), performance artist, and flat-out nut, he's what you'd get if you blended SCANNERS' Dr. Ruth (Patrick McGoohan), telepath/sculptor Ben Pierce (Robert Silverman), and psycho-villain Daryl Revok (Michael Ironside). Koteas, shorn of his TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLE locks and pseudo-Keanu mannerisms, gives Vaughn a seedy, conspiratorial air; he may talk of car crashes as "a fertilizing act" and a way to reshape humanity, but at heart he's a pervert who photographs highway wrecks like they were Hustler centerfolds. Arquette's Gabrielle, on the other hand, sets some kind of high-water mark in making disability sexy: her leg braces are almost a natural accessory to her fishnet hose and leather miniskirts. In the film's funniest scene, she and James wander into a Mercedes dealership, and after rubbing up against the showroom model, entices a salesman to help her try to get into the front seat -- where her leg braces snags on the upholstery. "Oh sh*t, this isn't good," moans the salesman as the leather seat rips and Gaby flashes James a smirk.
In a sense, CRASH is the perfect followup to last week's [A]cerbic Commentary ("Links du Kink"); both deal with discovering warps in your sexual makeup that you either didn't know you had or wouldn't otherwise admit to having. Unlike "traditional" porn, which is intended first and foremost to get you horny, Cronenberg treats the sexual content of CRASH as a Rorschach inkblot: what you get out of the couplings depends on what you bring to the theater. I, for one, enjoyed Unger's horizontal bop scenes (nice garter belt, honey) and even got a weird thrill out of Arquette's fishnets-'n'-flesh-wounds. The night I went, there were a few audience walkouts throughout the film -- though not necessarily where you'd expect (like a smooching scene between James and Vaughn). And while I'd be the last to accuse Cronenberg of something as trivial as "sexism," it bothers me that all the actresses showed plenty of boob and bush, but the men kept their gear shifts out of camera range...
(And in case you're wondering "how come Cronie's shifting from horror to sex?" -- well, check out the pedophiles and underwear fetishists in CRIMES OF THE FUTURE, the venereal parasites bringing on a sexual overthrow in SHIVERS/THEY CAME FROM WITHIN, the S&M and bondage scenes in VIDEODROME and DEAD RINGERS. He's always dealt with sex, albeit often mixed with blood, and CRASH is no exception...)
Ultimately, CRASH winds down into (what has become for Cronenberg) a typically downbeat conclusion: the Ballards merely incorporate car wrecks into their sex lives as just another thrill, and "Are you injured?" has replaced "Did you come?" (Both, by the way, answered by Catherine in the negative, with James gently reassuring her "Maybe next time...") Me, I have extremely mixed feelings about the film; it's obviously not designed to be a major crowd pleaser, a la SCANNERS or THE FLY, and I'm not sure I enjoyed it, but I'm glad I had the chance to experience it -- and that Cronenberg had the chance to make it.
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