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Brattle Theatre Film Notes: Videodrome Canada/US, 1983. Rated R. 89 min. Cast: James Woods, Sonja Smits, Deborah Harry, Peter Dvorsky, Les Carlson, Jack Creley; Music: Howard Shore; Cinematography: Mark Irwin; Producers: Pierre David, Claud Héroux, Lawrence Nesis, Victor Solnicki. Written and directed by David Cronenberg.
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hannel 83: Cable 12... it’s the one I still take to bed with me. A short burst of static echoes in the helmet I’ve found on my head since entering the Videodrome at age 11. It was by accident... I didn’t seek it out like Max Renn, but it infected me just the same. Title card... unstable signal... I start walking along my own version of Harlan’s pirate video lab, amidst my film/movie/ flick collection that goes thousands deep, loaded with bizarre oddities emanating from the most dubious of entertainers from all corners of the globe. The damage from the signal feels deep and strong right now...
attracted to off on his viewers for profit—doesn’t do him any favors, as he suddenly begins to slide in and out of a reality becoming “reality.” Things get strange (to put it mildly—when your stomach becomes a gun grasping vagina, call me and I’ll confirm that you are having a strange day); a beautiful woman plays at being helpful by day and leads him into “trying a few things” at night as Debbie Harry steps away from her Blondie locks to become the ultimate pain-junkie seductress, Nicki Brand. But the weirdness doesn’t end there, friend. Media prophets and dueling agendas and philosophies batter back and forth the perceptions, the very flesh, of Max Renn’s life.
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ut when does reality end and new reality intrude? Is one more desirable than the other? Renn is a thrill seeker and he becomes a living engine of thrilling hallucinations because of those thrills. I know how he feels too well... Through it all he does gain a purpose, doesn’t he?
B
arry Convex asks, “Why would anyone watch a scum show like Videodrome?” I can only pick up a pristine uncut DVD of Joe D’Amato’s scuzzy Emmanuelle in America and wonder the same thing, as I know that sex starlet Laura Gemser is going to be subjected to watching simulated snuff films that bear a haunting resemblance to what went down in Pittsburgh in 1983. I’ve seen it before and I’ll see it again.
A
moment of clarity... Everyone reading this is aware that David Cronenberg has a very unique imagination, so I don’t have to say it even though I just did. Videodrome is perhaps the apex of his original vision run berserk; it is a strange mixture of surreal violence and haunting foresight into the future of the relationship of television and the viewing public. From the pushing of the video envelope towards harder entertainment for the masses (What, you don’t have your Guinea Pig boxed set of vile Japanese exploitation yet? Get it at Best Buy like all the cool kids), to the O’Blivion theory of special Television Names (so baby... what’s your screen name at hotornot.com?), it is downright eerie in retrospect. Grotesque... as promised. Certainly upon its release this all seemed wilder and stranger than it feels today.
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n short, Videodrome relates the tale of a work-a-day merchant of exploitation entertainment, one Max Renn (James Woods) who becomes the target of a shady group plotting to control the minds of what they believe to be the weakest elements of society... the porn/gore fans. Renn may not bear a lot of respect for his audience outside of collecting their money, but he soon shows himself to be one of them. When he is introduced to the snuff frolics on show in a slick rubber and clay chamber called Videodrome he becomes an audience of one, though he is unaware of that little fact. His fascination—and willingness to foist the horrors he finds himself
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ideodrome stands tall in Cronenberg’s distinguished filmography, one dedicated to body horrors, thanks to a truly inventive concept and screenplay. The credit doesn’t stop there however, as everyone in the production helped create this otherworld out of the director’s tumored vision. To play Max Renn with the degree of humdrum madness required gave James Woods a chance to truly cut loose and play a host of emotions and characters. A lesser actor would crumble under the strain of being Mr. Sleazebag CableGuy one minute, agitated signal junkie the next and then silently into a killing automaton wielding one cancer loaded fleshgun before the shorter than 90 minute runtime unwinds. Not Woods, though: he makes every turn real with his skilled acting chops-and given the fact that he must make love to a large TV with his head that is no small task. Everyone else on screen keeps up admirably, from Les Carlson as the diabolical but inanely bland Barry Convex to the appearing only on TV when on TV (on a movie screen) Brian O’Blivion himself, Jack Creley, and right on back to the hilarious and perhaps under appreciated Lynne Gorman as Masha the shower loving porn matron—nobody has an easy sell with this madness, but each actor lends credence to the words and completes the illusion.
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nd those effects! Sure, Scanners had exploding heads, Rabid gave us an evil underarm loaded with a multi-genital killing spear, The Brood had children bashing in brains with hammers... but could they match up to The Convex Cancer Cluster? The Throbbing Tape of Trauma? Not to mention the horrors that occur in
the room of electrified clay, with its watery sluice running over rubber floors to wash away the blood of the “contestants” on the Videodrome... No, nothing quite compares to that. Rick Baker poured it on (the audience) and the images combine with the electrothrob of Howard Shore’s simple and effective score to push the hallucination dial to “Amok” and not only show more than you can imagine but also leave an indelible mark on your retina. There may be hundreds of victims in the Friday the 13th films, but none of their suffering is as memorable as Max Renn getting a new tape to play via a gaping stomach gash.
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’m feeling clearer now, the break is almost gone... my Videodrome reality demands attention. This Italian porn/shock DVD feels hot in my hand... hile it’s simple to say what Videodrome is on the surface... a splattery horror film, a tale of media domination by new technology, a B/D fantasy or a Technophobe Conspiracy delusion... the film benefits from your own interpretation. When does Max succumb to the signal he so openly craves? How do we know that our director isn’t an unreliable narrator, willfully leading us down the false path from the start? Do we care? Should we? And isn’t it interesting now that we are in the not so far distant future from the creation of this movie that we wouldn’t even watch the film on this alien videocassette format (DVD... is that a Japanese configuration?). Little discs would fit in places you couldn’t squeeze a Betamax tape. You don’t have to open that wide now, do you? Maybe we should worry about the hive mind mentality of those computer communities and the games we play... but after years of adapting and reshaping others' work those concerns would come out of Cronenberg’s brain as well... but that is a conversation best saved for the next time we all log into Existenz for some (inter)action.
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tatic again... this helmet is hot, but it feels right and familiar. Perhaps one day my analysis will be returned from Spectacular Optical and they can tell me the damage is mild and non-invasive... just keep on waiting for the next tape to arrive from Mr. Convex since he always has something to play for me. Something that will toughen me up and give me a thrill... let’s open up those receptors at the base of our spines... Harlan tells me once more, “We’ve got your head in the box.”
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rof. Brian O’Blivion’s prophecy reverberates in my ears as I plunk in my next disc... He says “you’ll have to learn to live in a very strange new world.” can only respond with the inevitable words... "I am the Video Word Made Flesh... Long Live The New Flesh." lam. —Written by David Zuzelo