By Alan Scherstuhl
By Mark Holcombe
By Scott Foundas
By Nick Pinkerton
By Michael Atkinson
By Scott Foundas
By Keith Phipps
By Alan Scherstuhl
Even the most squeamish fans of David Cronenberg's psycho-chiller Spider may be disappointed to learn that they have been deprived of the spectacle of an exploding blood potato. "It was not meant to explode," Cronenberg explains amiably during a recent interview in a sunny room at the Nicollet Island Inn. "The boy"--the young character nicknamed Spider--"cuts into it and it bleeds. When the special-effects guy showed it to me he was forcing so much blood through it that the lines exploded from the pressure. And then it gets blood everywhere and you can't ever get it off your sneakers."
The 59-year-old Canadian director likely has a whole wardrobe stained with human viscera, the byproduct of a three-decade-plus career that at one point or another has probably sent Stephen King clutching for an air-sickness bag. The many unsettling things that Cronenberg has done to bodies--things that by all rights are not meant to be done to bodies--make up a highlight reel of anxiety and repulsion. There's the blood-slurping penis-tendril that sprouts from a porn star's armpit in 1977's Rabid. The exploding head in 1981's Scanners. The chest-cavity flesh VCR of 1983's Videodrome. Who could forget (and believe me, I've tried) the homemade gynecological devices in 1988's Dead Ringers? Or the gism-lactating mugwump of 1991's Naked Lunch? And then there's the anal-sex interlude with James Spader in 1996's Crash, whose obvious claim to grotesquery is that it's an anal-sex scene with James Spader.
But Cronenberg has never been a lazy goremeister or a cheap imagineer. Asked why the exploding--make that oozing--blood potato didn't make the final cut, he explains his choice with impeccable logic. "One of my goals was to make the audience become Spider, to really perceive everything through his eyes. And so when he was hallucinating, I wanted the audience to be hallucinating too.
"The main hallucination in the movie of course is..."
And here I will make a strategic cut of my own to preserve the mystery of what terror seizes the boy who is at the center of the new film. This hallucination, Cronenberg suggests, should strike the audience as real--and it does. "But the potato," he continues, "they would not buy as real. They would know that is an effect--that it could not actually be happening. Whereas for the boy it would be actually happening."
A man who can unravel the ontology of a potato to this extent obviously has a philosophical bent. True to that vision, Spider turns out to be a tricky, Freudian (and mostly bloodless) tale of perception and derangement. Our guide into this maze is a shambling man (Ralph Fiennes) who barely speaks an intelligible word for the entire course of the movie. When we meet him as he exits a train in London, he's wearing four collared shirts and fishing around for an address he keeps in a sock nestled in the crotch of his pants. The four shirts might not be a bad idea for the place he's going--a grubby halfway house for de-institutionalized but still addled adults, whose pettily tyrannical mistress surely practices a typically British parsimony with the heat.
There's plenty of gas in this bleak neighborhood. Hulking casks of the stuff loom over the empty streets and fetid canals like mute monuments or votive figures. The overall mood is that of an abandoned set from "The Wasteland." In Patrick McGrath's novel Spider, the title character spins eloquent delusions to fill this universe. But at Cronenberg's urging, McGrath has adapted this voice in his screenplay so that Spider's experience emerges through his fumbling physicality. And so we're left to guess at what it means when Spider prostrates himself on someone's dirt garden and emits a soft groan.
For those who always wanted to watch Beckett's Krapp's Last Tape without a tape to get in the way--or who wish to see the actor do public penance for Maid in Manhattan--Fiennes's initial stumbling is plenty arty. Everyone else will take some relief when the pantomime yields to a series of memories from Spider's happy, happy childhood. (Confidential note to reader: It's not happy.) This working-class realm is populated by Spider's gentle mother (Miranda Richardson), his short-fused father (Aidan Quinn), and the big-busted tart his father takes up with. Spider first runs across this indelicate lass--or her lookalike--in the pub down the street where he's been sent to retrieve his father for dinner. Cackling like a banshee, she exposes tender Spider to his first sweet taste of adult sexuality by demurely thrusting her bared left tit at his face.
Later, we watch as Spider's father makes a home-repair call to Yvonne's festering bathroom, where she offers this bit of badinage: "You gonna do me pipes or what?" When the time comes for her to yank his plumbing--under a bridge by the canal--she pants noisily, catches the fluid on her hand, takes a few quick, menacing steps toward the camera, and shakes it off disgustedly into the stagnant water. This lusty British monster, with her slutty posture and fluoride-free smile, seems to have escaped from one of Grimm's unedited fairy tales. Reasonable gents can disagree on what level of assertiveness is most sexy in a girl, but anyone can see that something is not right when Yvonne tries to feed Spider and his father a bowl of uncooked eels.
Join My Voice Nation for free stuff, film info & more!
Find everything you're looking for in your city
Find the best happy hour deals in your city
Get today's exclusive deals at savings of anywhere from 50-90%
Check out the hottest list of places and things to do around your city