More than nausea (although there's some of that too), Antiviral induces in me a state of denial - it's hard to review because so much of me wants to pretend "Ooh hey look we've got Cronenberg back!" Yeah it's Brandon Cronenberg, David's son, but when you're desperate, you get desperate, if you know what I mean. Even if the movie sucked - which it doesn't thankfully - I wonder how much wiggle room I'd give it just because it's grooving on that vintage vibe his daddy spun into such awesome, gruesome gold. Papa's gone off to make Serious Movies (although they're still ecstatically delightfully weird things that only he could make, to be sure), leaving some space for Jr., who no doubt learned all about the susceptibilities of the weakest flesh while bouncing on his daddy's knee, to swoop in.
And swoop he does. Antiviral cranks the methodical aberrations up to eleven: flesh farms, celebrity worship, cellular steaks, freckles - they all meet and conspire most dastardly things here. But in that hushed half-a-beat-off tone the Cronenberg brand was built on, too. Anyway I missed it, and it was nice to slide in, this glove almost fits like the last ones. But those satisfactions aside, the meal, while beautifully laid out with care, is a little thin - even at such a deliberate pace, slow slower slowest, it needs a little more meat for caressing, breaking under the skin, rooting around in.
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