Crash felt like an unofficial sequel to Shivers, also known as They Came from Within, except apparently I find bloody phallic looking slugs that turn people into sex zombies less repulsive than the paraphiliic disorder that exhibits itself as a sexual arousal to car crashes. There are visual influences reflected in Cronenberg’s later work, Maps to the Stars, particularly Holly Hunter’s character in Crash and Mia Wasikowska’s character in Maps to the Stars.
Frankly I find car crashes so antithetical to joy that I avoided the financial and personal responsibility of a car until it was absolutely necessary. Instead of dialogue, the people in Crash communicate through graphic sex and deliberate car crashes, which I found boring and tedious even if there were great actors such as James Spader in it. If I found out that someone got aroused and maybe wanted to recreate one of my worst moments for pleasure, I would be epically pissed. Someone shield Mariska Hargitay’s eyes! I think that was the point. They are like drug addicts with unhealthy compulsions and an inability to truly connect despite all their frenzied efforts. They have the goals of retro transhumanists.
I usually love David Cronenberg’s body horror movies, and though I intellectually get Cronenberg’s commitment to ripping off the civilized facade and revealing the ugliness of people’s personal and primitive compulsions, I didn’t care. I didn’t enjoy it. Many claim that Crash is a perfect film, but one viewing was more than enough and maybe one too many.