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#698 - Videodrome
David Cronenberg, 1983
A sleazy cable-TV producer who is searching for provocative new programs discovers a horribly twisted new program dedicated to non-stop violence.
I have a rather contentious attitude towards David Cronenberg. I've seen several of his films and found that, for the most part, they range from the decent to the unimpressive. I give him credit for at least being an ambitious auteur working to bring some uncomfortable blends of emotion and intellect to a variety of genres in such a way that I'll definitely make an effort to see as much of his work as possible, but I have trouble considering any of them favourites or classics...except for Videodrome. Quite fittingly, I first watched Videodrome on cable-TV many years ago and it still remains one of the most indelible movie-watching experiences I've ever had. The storytelling was swift and unpredictable, the effects were disturbing, the film as a whole was extremely unsettling...in other words, it was the opposite of The Fly. Even watching it now, it's still a decidedly uncomfortable experience, but that's just a sign that it's lost none of its potency. Videodrome follows an executive (James Woods) from a controversial cable-TV station as he looks for exciting new programs to draw in audiences. Being bored by anything that he deems too "soft", things take a turn when his video-pirating colleague (Peter Dvorsky) unearths the eponymous "Videodrome", a show that consists of nothing but scenes of people being brutally tortured by masked figures in a filthy room. Woods decides this is just the sort of show that he's looking for, but his discovery only sends him into one very nightmarish rabbit-hole...
Part of what makes Videodrome stand out among the rest of Cronenberg's body-horror films is that its focus on early-'80s technology does nothing to render the film a relic of the past. Several decades later, its sinister commentary on the pervasive nature of widespread scenes of sex, violence, and the twisted ways in which they blend together still holds very much true regardless of technological advancement. There are even less overtly sinister ways in which television bleeds into modern society, such as a religious charity that provides television to homeless people instead of food. Amidst all this weirdness, Woods proves the perfect centre for the film as the slimy exec who quite blatantly prioritises commerce and controversy over any kind of moral or artistic integrity. He is matched by a number of different characters who represent varying attitudes towards not only Videodrome but also the very nature of mass media itself. The most prominent of these is easily Blondie frontwoman Debbie Harry as a radio host whose extremely liberal attitudes both unnerve and entice Woods, though the presence of Jack Creley as a Marshall McLuhan-like academic who only ever appears on videotape is a weird one that still seems strangely plausible. Everyone turns in solid performances that may come across as stiff or stilted but that's arguably the point in a film about how technology is changing the ways in which people interact.
A lot of credit for what makes Videodrome such an outstanding film has to go to the legendary Rick Baker, who provides some excellent practical effects that convey the extremely visceral ways in which Videodrome starts to affect the people who are exposed to it. The film's most notorious moment involves Woods' torso mutating during a session with Videodrome, while there are also instances of gory explosions and pulsating pieces of technology. None of this would really be effective if it wasn't for the way in which the editing and pacing leads to viewers constantly questioning exactly how much of the film is real or simply Videodrome-induced hallucination (or both). Thanks to its lean running time, it keeps utilitarian development to a minimum and doesn't get boring even after multiple viewings. Howard Shore's frequently foreboding and artificial-sounding score only serves to accentuate the mechanical mood of the film. These are just some of the many factors that contribute to Videodrome having staying power in a way that few other Cronenberg films come close to reaching. Just like the eponymous program, it is outwardly gross and borderline-unwatchable (though one could easily consider it tame by present-day standards) but not without reason. That's what makes it a classic.
David Cronenberg, 1983
A sleazy cable-TV producer who is searching for provocative new programs discovers a horribly twisted new program dedicated to non-stop violence.
I have a rather contentious attitude towards David Cronenberg. I've seen several of his films and found that, for the most part, they range from the decent to the unimpressive. I give him credit for at least being an ambitious auteur working to bring some uncomfortable blends of emotion and intellect to a variety of genres in such a way that I'll definitely make an effort to see as much of his work as possible, but I have trouble considering any of them favourites or classics...except for Videodrome. Quite fittingly, I first watched Videodrome on cable-TV many years ago and it still remains one of the most indelible movie-watching experiences I've ever had. The storytelling was swift and unpredictable, the effects were disturbing, the film as a whole was extremely unsettling...in other words, it was the opposite of The Fly. Even watching it now, it's still a decidedly uncomfortable experience, but that's just a sign that it's lost none of its potency. Videodrome follows an executive (James Woods) from a controversial cable-TV station as he looks for exciting new programs to draw in audiences. Being bored by anything that he deems too "soft", things take a turn when his video-pirating colleague (Peter Dvorsky) unearths the eponymous "Videodrome", a show that consists of nothing but scenes of people being brutally tortured by masked figures in a filthy room. Woods decides this is just the sort of show that he's looking for, but his discovery only sends him into one very nightmarish rabbit-hole...
Part of what makes Videodrome stand out among the rest of Cronenberg's body-horror films is that its focus on early-'80s technology does nothing to render the film a relic of the past. Several decades later, its sinister commentary on the pervasive nature of widespread scenes of sex, violence, and the twisted ways in which they blend together still holds very much true regardless of technological advancement. There are even less overtly sinister ways in which television bleeds into modern society, such as a religious charity that provides television to homeless people instead of food. Amidst all this weirdness, Woods proves the perfect centre for the film as the slimy exec who quite blatantly prioritises commerce and controversy over any kind of moral or artistic integrity. He is matched by a number of different characters who represent varying attitudes towards not only Videodrome but also the very nature of mass media itself. The most prominent of these is easily Blondie frontwoman Debbie Harry as a radio host whose extremely liberal attitudes both unnerve and entice Woods, though the presence of Jack Creley as a Marshall McLuhan-like academic who only ever appears on videotape is a weird one that still seems strangely plausible. Everyone turns in solid performances that may come across as stiff or stilted but that's arguably the point in a film about how technology is changing the ways in which people interact.
A lot of credit for what makes Videodrome such an outstanding film has to go to the legendary Rick Baker, who provides some excellent practical effects that convey the extremely visceral ways in which Videodrome starts to affect the people who are exposed to it. The film's most notorious moment involves Woods' torso mutating during a session with Videodrome, while there are also instances of gory explosions and pulsating pieces of technology. None of this would really be effective if it wasn't for the way in which the editing and pacing leads to viewers constantly questioning exactly how much of the film is real or simply Videodrome-induced hallucination (or both). Thanks to its lean running time, it keeps utilitarian development to a minimum and doesn't get boring even after multiple viewings. Howard Shore's frequently foreboding and artificial-sounding score only serves to accentuate the mechanical mood of the film. These are just some of the many factors that contribute to Videodrome having staying power in a way that few other Cronenberg films come close to reaching. Just like the eponymous program, it is outwardly gross and borderline-unwatchable (though one could easily consider it tame by present-day standards) but not without reason. That's what makes it a classic.