"Well, certainly I've always been intrigued by the lack of definitive perception, and the idea that reality is a willed, created thing. Rather than lapsing into a clinical study, however - "Ralph knew I didn't want a checklist of symptoms in place of a character" - the film chips away at its protagonist's condition to reveal a vintage Cronenberg obsession: the slippery nature of reality. There's also mental illness, captured in acute and often harrowing detail by Fiennes.
".So the idea of somehow coming to terms with Englishness was hugely appealing to me."īut Englishness isn't all that's being scrutinised in Spider. "And," he goes on, "in the 60s, of course, I came to London as a student, and I still remember those dingy rooming houses, putting threepenny bits in poorly- maintained electric heaters.and a lot of the movies that fascinated me at the time were either made by Brits or had some connection to the place.and also, I have to mention this, rock music has always been incredibly important to me.I mean, I saw the Stones in, what.'66.at the Palladium, I think." He drifts away, lost in a reverie of nostalgia. Only, by his own meandering account, it's a wholly natural step for someone raised by Anglophile parents in 1950s Canada "where the Queen still gazes serenely from our banknotes".
There is no technology to mutate here - just one man's struggle with his own damaged past.īetween such doleful subject matter and the abandonment of his usual arch-modernist settings for a dank, post-war Whitechapel, the film might seem a departure for its maker. Which, given his contrary make-up, obviously means his latest project is Spider, a stark adaptation of novelist Patrick McGrath's portrait of a British schizophrenic (played by Ralph Fiennes) following his release from an asylum. How else could you explain a career full of cerebral, deeply reflective movies that just happened to involve rampant sexual parasites (Shivers, his feature debut), the outer limits of gynaecology (Dead Ringers), exploding heads (the infamous Scanners) or insectile typewriters spurting orgasmically at the use of random words and phrases (the predictably crazed William Burroughs tribute The Naked Lunch)? "Weird" doesn't even begin to cover it: the long, productive marriage of a peerlessly gooey aesthetic and an ardent fixation with the overlap of evolution, technology and death. But then confounding preconceptions has always been his trademark. Make sure I don't bother any tourists."įor a walking affront to decency, he's looking pretty dapper in all-black garb and immaculately coiffed silver hair. "Maybe they'll be waiting for me as I leave. And now, all these years later, he's back on enemy turf. You could spend all day at the nearby "adults only" Astral cinema, but Cronenberg's essay in carnal bumper-denting was a thrill too far. To most audiences, the film was more baffling than outrageous to the area's elected guardians, however, it was deemed to "deprave and corrupt" and was, as such, promptly banned. The problem was Crash, the director's chilly 1996 take on JG Ballard's novel of sex and bad motoring. Here, after all, in the eyes of Westminster City Council, Cronenberg was once formally deemed a public menace. "Yeah," he says, "you can see I was the moral danger round here." David Cronenberg looks down from the third-floor window and squints a little.
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The sex shops with the frosted windows are already open for all kinds of business, and the crack dealers have set up stall on the usual corners.
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