Director David Cronenberg took a wrong turn with this failed sex-melodrama about car crashes and climaxes. A young movie producer is involved in a violent two-car smash-up which leaves one man dead and his wife briefly hospitalized--and yet aroused. The producer and the woman begin a sexual relationship with car wrecks as their aphrodisiac--and they're not alone; the producer's wife is already a player in this ungainly game, and so is a local performance artist who is sexually charged by recreating celebrity crashes. Cronenberg, who also adapted J.G. Ballard's novel, was allegedly attracted not to the eroticism prevalent in the material, but rather the opportunity to delve into his characters' scarred and warped psyches (Roger Ebert called the film "A pornographic movie without pornography in it"). Unfortunately, the characters are a heavy-breathing group of hedonistic (or is that nihilistic?) freaks, pale and vacant-eyed like horny zombies, who seem to have the time and the energy (and the insurance!) to engage in such a lifestyle. What is Cronenberg's point--that death behind the steering wheel represents the ultimate orgasm? If eroticism wasn't Cronenberg's primary objective in tackling this tasteless project, that pretty much leaves everyone involved bumping and grinding without a purpose. Shaken but not stirred, if you will. *1/2 from ****
Review of Crash
