Continuing my Cronenberg-fest, I rented Crash. I had missed it in the theatres but always wanted to view it myself – of course the NC-17 rated version.
Cronenberg knows horny.
A leggy blonde walks into a aircraft hangar. Her hand traces the rivets of a plane’s steel wings. A sigh escapes her open mouth. She leans forward and smells the metal. Her other hand slowly takes her right breast out her blouse and she pushes her warm, voluptuous breast against the cool, smooth metal. Another sigh and her eyes close. A man comes behind her and begins a rutting, rhythmic entry and they move in unison.
The movie explores the connection between sex and death – through a fictional fetish underground: people who get aroused from car crashes. The collision of machine and flesh provides a backdrop for several bored denizens to put their kinks to the test.
I liked Crash for the most part – a little slow towards the end. But full of horned up imagery and great sex. So many times, films have sex that is too general. On-screen sex is so much more arousing when it is super-specific: these two particular individuals at this particular time in this particular bed (or car). And the movie stars everybody’s favorite horndog – James Spader (I think Spader and Jeremy Irons should star in a movie called Horny Old Men sometime in the future). Spader has a talent for seeming so bland and boring but then launching into full-tilt lust at the drop of a hat (or skirt). Two brief same-sex encounters round out the musical beds/cars motif of the film.
This film reminded me of Fight Club, bored post-modern folk exploring phsyical extremes to encounter some kind of deeper feeling or intimacy in their lives.
Hotter and hornier than anything Ron and I have rented in a while.