|
Alphabetic Index
|
Ratings Index
|
Web Resources
|
Alphabetic Index
|
Ratings Index
|
Web Resources
Eager to return to their high-rise apartment, yet deluged by work, James has only half an eye on the road ahead. Foolishly bending down to retrieve a set of photos, James crosses the white line and collides head-on in a scream of twisted metal. While the driver of the other car perishes instantly, by diving through the windscreen, James survives and awakes in hospital. Placed in a ward for crash victims, with his leg pinned together by gleaming metal rods, James learns of the other survivor; Dr Helen Remington (Holly Hunter), the wife of the deceased. Curiously, when James ventures into the corridor, he quickly and awkwardly bumps into Helen. Accompanied by a scarred orderly, Vaughan (Elias Koteas), her mere presence discomforts James. When Vaughan starts to prod him, James seems so resigned to examinations that this is nothing unusual.
Once on the outside, James seems strangely determined to slide behind the wheel of his car. In a declaration of unconcern he picks out an identical model to the one which lies wrecked in the scrap-yard, ready to join the highway with damaged leg and all. During a flash of coincidence James once again meets up with Helen, this time when they're checking out the junked wrecks. Courteously offering her a lift to the airport, they compare notes on how their traffic perception has altered. Suddenly Helen has to grab the wheel to avert a collision, a near miss which leaves them flushed and sexually aroused. As soon as they dock within the airport car park, they're tearing at each other's clothes like teenagers, writhing in passion. Little does James realise that he's about to get sucked into a fetishistic universe beyond his wildest imaginings.
You've got to hand it to David Cronenberg; he sure knows how to pick projects that explore his obsession with the many and varied aspects of sexuality. In Crash he hits upon a fetish which probably doesn't exist beyond the confines of a cinema screen - the erotic fervour of vehicular collisions. The problem is that in making this acceptable to a wide audience, Cronenberg strands Crash in a no-mans land; the film distances itself so firmly from any identifiable human emotion that it's near impossible to connect with the characters. What this leaves behind is an excess of style, an atmospheric and compelling glimpse into a world displaced from the familiar. Here people behave in a very abnormal fashion, seemingly without anyone else noticing. There are no motives or background to propel their actions, they simply follow the path which feeds the void within. Thus Crash is a movie which functions of itself, divorced from external constructs.
In the spirit of Crash, the performances drawn out by Cronenberg are flawless in their avoidance of emotion. Spader and Unger make an excellent couple, knowingly cold in their relations yet fascinated by the acts they can get away with. Both have the air of dead flesh (Spader in his face and Unger through her eyes) about them, appropriate for those whose greatest thrill is trying to maim themselves. Hunter is equally dehumanised, applying all of her skill in removing the last shreds of personality; she is truly empty. On another level of creepiness altogether, Koteas lives and breathes for the violated bodies of impact victims (whether car or human). His religious ability to draw the others into his dreams is thoroughly uncomfortable; a fine piece of acting. Rounding off the crew of deviants, Rosanna Arquette (as Gabrielle) totters about in shiny leg braces. Less an advertisement for disabled sex and more a cyborg fantasy, she at least provides a few moments of dark, bleak humour.
Curiously when Crash is stripped of hype it's difficult to see what all the fuss was about. Despite the subject matter Crash turns out not to be a particularly shocking or difficult picture after all; it's actually very tasteful. Yes there is an almost continuous stream of sex acts and the crashes are very effectively shot, but the film is just too sterile, too clinical to disturb. Because the central figures are barely human, functioning more like ciphers, Crash doesn't even make it as a porn flick. Instead it's a sophisticated hula-hoop, endlessly treading the same path and never getting anywhere. If Cronenberg has a point to make (perhaps one which is present in the original book) he doesn't state it with any clarity; all he lets the audience do is observe, denied even the opportunity to share the perversion. So, cut out from the film, the audience ends up cut out from understanding.
|
Alphabetic Index
|
Ratings Index
|
Web Resources