We’ve all been afflicted by a sickness and we aren’t even aware of it. It’s worse than cancer. It’s highly contagious. There is no cure. There is no hope. It’s called the sickness of celebrity obsession.
Look at what happened to Miley
Cyrus. The poor thing wags her tongue and twerks in public as an excuse for a
song and dance performance. She humps cannon balls buck naked in music videos
and magazine covers to escape from being a teen idol. Her sad, pathetic state is
attributed to us. We can’t stop talking about her. We can’t have enough of her.
The media can’t stop leeching off her.
The only way to realize all this
is by watching the fantastic indie horror film Antiviral.
Directed by 28-year-old Brandon
Cronenberg, the son of the great David Cronenberg, Antiviral is a swell demonstration of the mantle of cerebral horror
cinema being passed from father to son. The film has Cronenberg Sr’s trademark creepy
imagery, morbid humor, body horror, stomach turning violence and nihilistic
overtones. Most importantly, junior Cronenberg has made his film a clever,
twisted thriller to complement its chilling social commentary.
Antiviral is set in a dystopian future where the obsession with
celebrities has reached a nauseating zenith. Celebs have sold out so much that
food items are retailed with celeb brand names, and there are companies that
sell diseases which celebs contract. Caleb Landry Jones stars as Syd, a
technician at a pharmaceutical organization that harvests ‘celeb viruses’ and
injects them into ‘customers’ who want to experience a connection with
celebrities. Customers are given an inventory of various stars and corresponding
illnesses, and they choose their favourite celebs after listening to Syd’s lengthy,
seductive sales pitch. If this situation isn’t messed up enough for you
already, Syd pirates the diseases, getting himself tangled in rival companies, shady
mobs and the death of a popular star.
The film dances from satire and
allegory in some pretty disturbing ways and it becomes more and more macabre as
Cronenberg gets into the technicalities. There is a barely legal ‘meat market’ that
sells steaks and flesh products cultivated from movie stars’ cells. There are
skin grafts developed from the celeb tissues worn by their fans as tattoos. There
is some sort of a ‘copy protection’ system that prevents technicians from
duplicating the viruses, with a screen that displays a ghastly version of the
celeb’s face. The way Syd manages to override the system and pirate the virus
is horrific to say the least. It’s just a
gruesome, brutal takedown of pop culture and the ridiculously profitable business
that supports it.
Cronenberg mashes the themes of perfection
and imperfection brilliantly, juxtaposing the near perfect nature of the movie
stars to Syd’s deathly pale freckles. It’s a bit unsettling when you fathom the
meta surrounding the film – where cinema is just like the virus and can be sold
commercially with digital copyrights, by sucking stars dry just to cater to our
greedy little hands. The film also does a great job of establishing the utter
lack of tact displayed by large corporations who profit from selling
celebrities to their fans. Never before has a film been more relevant to us,
and it’s perhaps time to leave Miley alone and think about the fact that we
were directly responsible for the dozens of Disney stars ending up in rehab.
(First published in DNA)
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