David Cronenberg is an acquired taste which I have not quite acquired. That isn't to say I don't admire his films, as movies like NAKED LUNCH, CRASH and SCANNERS have proved memorable and bold. His work, however, is almost frustratingly obtuse, punctuated by grisly, bizarre and perverse imagery that can turn the most hardened of stomachs. VIDEODROME is no exception. Starting as a satire on man's fascination and obsession with television, it evolves rapidly into a hallucinogenic mind-warp that left me scratching my head more often then picking my brain. Cronenberg trademarks, like phallic and vaginal imagery, kinky heroines and sleazy heroes, are all here in graphic display, but their portrayal alternates between oddly beautiful to fetishistic and obscene. Obviously, this is all part of the plan, and like I said before, I admire much of it. It's when the film lowers itself to pseudo-psychobabble and heavy-handed contemporary mysticism that I lose focus, and the entire film just rates as a large question mark.
Review of Videodrome
