Cronenberg maps the way to creepiness
When nothing worth watching opens in local theaters, I turn more and more to On Demand or other movie-watching services. That's what drew me to David Cronenberg's most recent film "Maps to the Stars." Following is a transcript of the review that I wrote for Spokane Public Radio:
For a guy whose feature filmmaking career began with Debbie Harry and exploding heads, David Cronenberg has endured far longer than many other proponents of exploitative cinema.
That’s due, at least in part, to the fact that Cronenberg – over his five-decade career – has managed to avoid simple labels. Such as, say, “proponent of exploitative cinema.” It’s also due to a style that, as it has evolved over the decades, has grown increasingly complex both in theme and style. It’s only in tone that Cronenberg has remained consistent.
The early Cronenberg made movies that blended well with typical drive-in fare. They carried such colorful titles as “Rabid” and “Videodrome,” his casts tended to include the likes of porn-star Marilyn Chambers, and the special effects – exploding heads, remember? – were often as cheesy as they were shocking.
These days – indeed, since the early ’90s – Cronenberg’s movies play art houses, and his casts include the likes of Viggo Mortensen, Juliette Binoche and Michael Fassbender.
Take his latest film, “Maps to the Stars,” which I saw on my Comcast On Demand service. Among its stars is Julianne Moore, who just won a Best Actress Oscar.
But even with better actors to work with and a filmmaking style that is as patient as it is proficient, Cronenberg has defiantly remained true to his haunted roots. You can take the man out of the creepiness, but you’ll never take the creepiness out of this man’s work.
Working from a screenplay by veteran writer Bruce Wagner, whose study of L.A.’s underbelly has been played out in books, graphic novels and movie scripts, Cronenberg tells the story of several movie-centric characters at once.
Moore plays Havana Segrand, a fading movie star whose mania involves her obsession to play her own late mother in a film version of mommy’s life. John Cusack plays a cliché-spouting self-help guru, Olivia Williams his wife, and together they harbor a shameful secret. Their teenage son (Evan Bird) is a movie star in a popular comedy series whose attitude needs a serious readjustment.
And around them all skulks Agatha (Mia Wasikowska), the proverbial girl off the bus who descends on L.A. with what, at first, seems to be a misplaced sense of confidence. But quickly enough she connects, not just with a jumpy limo driver (Robert Pattinson) but with – of all people, Carrie Fisher – who introduces her to Havana, to whom Agatha becomes a personal assistant.
How all these characters interact, and the trouble they cause for one another, reflects Wagner’s dark view of Hollywood’s dream machine – an industry whose cannibalistic narcissism has been addressed by everyone from Nathanael West and F. Scott Fitzgerald to David Lynch and Sofia Coppola.
But Cronenberg, as always, paints the place with his own trademark brush, one that feels like satire but plays out more like contemporary horror. You won’t find any porn stars, and Cronenberg gives us only one bloodied skull, but if “Maps to the Stars” doesn’t disturb your sleep patterns, you might be in serious need of a therapist.