“Grief is rotting your teeth.”

Karsh (Vincent Cassel), an innovative businessman and grieving widower, builds a device to connect with the dead inside a burial shroud.

Beating Around the Bush

It all began on a beautiful, warm, and sunny morning—the kind that seems like a good omen, dressed in fresh sprouts and birdsong (Snow White would’ve been thrilled). Ready to head out, I took my first breath of spring air (it doesn’t smell at all like those spray can air fresheners) and realized at that exact moment that the city, newly awakened from its slumber, was gaining strength to return to its frantic pace, as the bus, early, passed right in front of me. Still, I managed to catch said moderately convenient transport after a two-minute run (not bad, really); naturally, my card didn’t work. The driver let me on anyway—it was the express line, so no time to lose.

Up to that point, I told myself it couldn’t be that bad; after all, these were just minor inconveniences. I was still going to see The Shrouds—David Cronenberg’s latest, a director we Canadians proudly claim as our own, known for genre classics like The Fly or, more personally, Videodrome; and at ten in the morning, it was bound to pack a punch. While I tried not to overthink what I was about to watch, I noticed my fellow urban travellers doing their best to remain calm through an impromptu detour. I realized this detour was actually taking me closer to my destination, so I gathered my courage and approached the mighty driver at the helm to ask if he could, if possible, drop me off at a convenient sidewalk, explaining my situation. To my dismay, I had to watch my stop slowly slip away in the sluggish traffic, no chance of getting off. Still, it was a beautiful day for walking—not really something to complain about for more than two minutes.

Anyway, I arrived at the venue on time for the screening and early enough to grab a coffee just above the Cinéma du Parc, where I met a charming gentleman who didn’t give his name but was praising the verve and spirit of one of his former university students—now apparently part of LPS as I am. Before I could say I wished I’d had professors like that too, the conversation drifted toward the neutrality of information, for example, regarding the Israeli–Palestinian conflict… I tried to chime in, and an older woman stood up to lecture me, cutting me out of the conversation quite tactlessly with an air of smug condescension. Whether I’m a poor child or not, madam, that’s not an argument—it’s ageism and sophistry. At that moment, I couldn’t quite explain why, but I was really looking forward to diving back into Cronenberg’s world and losing my bearings for about a hundred minutes.

Honor or Privilege?

The Shrouds begins with an abstract background—a fine green mist on black, reminiscent of old Windows screensavers (whose original purpose is now defunct, leaving only aesthetics and nostalgia—poetic, really). Then, in a dirt tomb, a man—Vincent Cassel as Karsh—watches his wife, played by Diane Kruger, apparently dead, through a small hole. Her body lies there, partly dissected, slowly decomposing. So far, aside from the overly luxurious setting (I mean, as in expensive), there’s nothing in the film—practically speaking. I don’t want to be discouraged so quickly, the movie’s just begun, but let me point out that Scanners—among others—started off with a bit more spunk.

I’m not unfamiliar with Hegelian notions of image plasticity—philosophical perspectives that I feel are alluded to in this film (maybe in all films, really, haha). There’s also a lot of mirror and screen reflexivity (no screensavers this time), which opens the door to deep creativity without ever stepping through it. The effects are mostly (if not entirely) CGI. We’re shown a self-driving Tesla model (have you ever played Mario Kart? Might be time, with the new one coming to Switch 2) shamelessly flaunted like it’s “sick,” as the “youths” would say. AI avatars manage your schedule (by the way, electronic secretaries for everyone—that’s science fiction), Chinese and Russian hackers, conspiracy theorists against doctors and their experiments (apparently, conspiracy theorists are also aphrodisiacs now). I didn’t feel disturbed even once—except maybe by the fact that the entire film reminded me of the final scene of The Substance, when the creature still thinks it can pass as human while decomposing before our eyes (or was it The Fly? I can’t remember—they’re so alike).

It’s like Cronenberg asked Google or GPT (not Grandpa Turtle) what the “Cronenberg style” was to write his script. On paper, The Shrouds is indeed a film of that genre, but through the transformation of lost original matter into the projected, solidified plasticity of the screen image, it doesn’t feel like it. Not to me, anyway. Is he telling us that the blind and the maimed are horrible to look at? Is he clumsily questioning that part of the self that makes us who we are and whether it belongs to any physical organ? The main character is a rich, boring and lonely billionaire who thinks he’s great (that’s what the audience is supposed to think). Storytelling is about letting your audience see bits of themselves in parts of the story. Are there too many interior designers per cubic centimeter compared to the number of livable homes? The phrase that screams “I’m not young” the most is: “I know technology.” I know technology too—I’ve got a lighter in my pocket.

To Depart with Dignity

Everything in its time, whether past or future, has its moment in the present. When you’re young, you want to be older; when you’re old, you try to be younger. Ironic, right? I’m convinced his latest film is constructed in the same way as those other cinematic classics—with great personal inspiration. Before even questioning whether it’s good or bad, one must try (Art is not the Force, sorry Yoda). That’s sort of why we watch a Cronenberg or a Shyamalan—we want to see Life through the unique gaze of an artist, but maybe not see his unique life through ours. In The Shrouds, it’s hard not to notice the intimate, visceral layer from the filmmaker serving as the film’s backdrop (or screensaver). Any decent critic could easily use this as a psychoanalytic foundation to better understand David Cronenberg as a human being. Still, that doesn’t stop this latest project from the Canadian icon from failing to take us beyond what we already know or have seen before.

Maybe this proves that some generations have had enough airtime. Not in the sense of “let’s push the old folks out,” but more that it’s always more graceful to pass the torch to a successor than to awkwardly fumble the ball between colleagues and drop it. Where Cronenberg once had fire and provocation, it’s now calm and convenient. eXistenZ or A History of Violence were the kinds of films made by pioneers of cinematic evolution—works that disturbed or surprised with their boldness, yet always felt like they were forging paths into unknown or rarely trodden lands. There are plenty of great ideas out there—in Canada and elsewhere—so how about giving Gen Y a chance for once (oh, but I know, Gen Z is already more hip and “in the know”). I know I’m preaching to the choir and that I sound frustrated when I talk about this, but sometimes it really feels like it’s just as hard for me to mature into being heard in this field as it is to not get carded at Couche-Tard, even for a lighter. Am I not allowed to wonder when—or if ever—I’ll finally be taken seriously? (For the record, I’ve been of legal age for almost as long as it takes to become one.)

In conclusion, I know patience and impulsivity are things I need to work on. Still, I’m aware of it, and I work on it every day. Let me tell you, I’m not the only one working on patience. That’s probably why anger is a plague. It’s likely the most exacerbated emotion under the current conditions we all live in—and the most dismissed. Oh sure, men cry now, but no one gets angry anymore. In fact, no one gets angry… and that’s worrying. Where is that transformative energy in our pivotal era? Anger is a powerful energy that deconstructs—but also builds. That’s what’s constructive, and it helps my patience. Instead of letting bodies in perfect condition rot, letting sharp, vivifying minds burn themselves out, and letting uniqueness drown in a sea of toxic unity and homogenized uniformity—wouldn’t it be better, dear readers, to ask ourselves why we’re so keen on preserving death instead of life?

By the way, you can still go see the film if you don’t believe me. But you know what was really scary that morning before the screening of The Shrouds? I paid without looking—thanks to that impolite lady’s interruption—and before walking in, I glanced at the damn receipt I didn’t ask for. My coffee cost exactly $6.66. Let’s just say the bill was more laxative than the drink itself. I’ll leave you now with a melody that serves as a leitmotif for the botched days we let sink into the night, with dignity and respect (Nearer my God to thee).

Trailer