Crimes of the Future, the latest film by David Cronenberg, is in the room. Despite conflicting reviews and even synopses that anticipate the plot in completely antithetical ways, it’s not the highbrow supercock you might expect. And it makes you enjoy. Quite a lot of
No.or spoiler. Also because it would be impossible. “Crimes of the Future”, the new film by David Cronenberg in the dining room from 24 August, judging by the reviews (and even the synopsis) available online, it has all the air of being the classic intellectual supercazzola that nobody really understands a stone of. However, in the meantime, she talks and writes about it to give herself an art-house tone. We gladly spare you reflections and disanimous from the parvenus of the intelligentsia and we dare, instead, to talk about it as mere mortals: can be enjoyed for two hours. On the credits, you are assailed by a sense of absolute satisfaction that will tend to persist, willy-nilly. The blood, the dead, the apocalyptic future, the climate changes that will screw up our already run-down planet like the Jova Beach Party does with the caretta caretta turtles. All right, all true. There is also this. But “Crimes of the Future” is a film made of eyes, of sexual tension, of voyeurs and tourists of pornography who go further and further, beyond any limit, desperately trying to find satisfaction. Talk about us, therefore, today. Not “tomorrow”.
G.From the title, the film leads us to think that it is our duty to think about some type of crime, in all likelihood more than one, which we will have to atone for in a possible future. And indeed the director leads us into a hideous, disgusting future. It is for a simple matter of subtraction: there is no longer any physical or emotional pain. Humanity, logically, should live in peace, then, right? No. Because, unfortunately or fortunately, we were not born to be Excel sheets and that small manufacturing defect for which nothing ever seems “enough”, we always carry around with us. From here, pain, in this possible future, is narrated in legends, sought after, obsessively craved. Simply because it is not there.
Like drug addicts, in the dark alleys of the streets of Athens (location of the film), men and women cut themselves up, mutilate the bodies of others with the full consent of all involved, hoping that it will be the right time when they will be able to hear something. But it never happens. In a world populated by emotional vampires on the hunt for sensations they are no longer able to feel, artists are considered demigods because they have the task of suffering. Or, at least, to flaunt suffering and make it perfomance. Because that’s what people need to see, what they really lack. And they are willing to do anything to get close to it. Therefore surgery plays a fundamental role: in this overturned world, introspection is literally being split open by a scalpel in front of a paying audience to show “what’s inside”. And inside there are organs, also designed ad hoc forexperience, blood, in some cases remnants of plastic and disgust: that is the “inner beauty”. Everyone enjoys: from artists to bystanders. A rather overbearing satire, on closer inspection.
THEthe protagonist Saul Tenser (Viggo Mortensen)perpetually tucked up in his black overcoat, he doesn’t show an inch of skin unless he is on stage or in the weird intimacy of his super-intelligent home (there are chairs that feed him, beds that cradle him through grafts in the limbs) together with assistant and partner in crime Caprice (Léa Seydoux). She left medical surgery to become an “artist” like him and then skinned him using futuristic gadgets in the public square.
Saul is considered the greatest performer of the “introspective” scene, when in reality the only desire he has is to die in peace. He tries in every way, aided by a society that is just that, his suffering, he is eager to see. The other performative artists, in a clear run-up, try to imitate him by bringing to the stage blurred representations of pain, and consequently of a beauty, which is only a plastic pose. Laughable. There is nothing true. But the public, as always, is satisfied with even a little in order to enjoy. Saul sucks everyone. Cronenberg sucks everyone. But it gives us exactly what we want (even today): the pain, the blood, the porn-splatter detail exclusively for subscribers.
“Crimes of the Future” is not a horror, it is not a pippone, it is nothing of what has been written so far. Or it is only partially. To unite the audience in the hall to the hideous characters of the film is only pure desire. Of pain, of an orgasm. We are doomed. But we will continue to strive for something worse. Because nothing is ever enough in our little lives. And nothing matters anymore. No spoilers. We do not see, we do not speak, we do not hear.