By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Carolina Del Busto
By Amy Nicholson
By Simon Abrams
By Kevin Dilmore
By New Times
By Amy Nicholson
At a time when much of our national debate comes down to whether the country can tell a war from a computer game, eXistenZ seizes on that dangerous muddle and (unlike The Matrix) makes something witty and coherent out of it. It's Cronenberg's most assured and enjoyable movie in more than a dozen years. Much of the film's fun comes from the way he creates a novel kind of sex comedy out of an uproariously messy sort of sci-fi invention. The eXistenZ game pod, made from synthetic DNA and amphibian eggs, looks like a flesh-covered kidney with multiple nipples. The players link to it through a gnarled, enormous, perversely phallic "UmbyCord." And the UmbyCord links to them through their individual "Bioport," which on the inside connects to the spine and outside quivers like a hungry orifice. When the players palpate their game pods or arouse their Bioports, what ensues is somewhere between the autoerotic and the automatic, and at times resembles what Monica would call "messing around."
The setup gives us Leigh's Allegra, goddess of game development, preparing to play her new masterpiece eXistenZ with a focus group gathered in a church hall in the sticks. In this creepy netherworld, a test match for a game system has elements of Judgment and Election Day, and maybe opening night. Yet the momentous aura suffuses the melodrama with sardonic humor rather than inflate and bust it up.
The supporting players look totally committed and involved, but they all seem to be missing key ingredients--it's as if they need a Bioport to complete them. Cronenberg builds this perception into the ambiance and the narrative, rather than making it a "point" about our addiction to sensation; this way, he allows viewers to maintain a skeptical distance without taking the sting out of his laughs and jolts. His abettors in this seductive form of cinematic alienation are Peter Suschitzky and Carol Spier, contemporary masters of cinematography and production design, who manage to keep the settings suitably generic--like, for instance, the "rural church hall"--while imbuing them with the unsettling fairy-tale shades of a haunted house in a deep wood.
Without giving too much away, it's fair to report that a would-be assassin disrupts the initial match with the cry "Death to the demon Allegra!" That sends Allegra hurtling through the countryside with Ted, a part-time security man and full-time PR geek. More than just nurse her own wound, Allegra wants to save her true life's blood--her game system. She fears it's been damaged, even infected during the attack; to check it out, she needs to play with someone else she's sure is "friendly." So poor, squeamish Ted gets fitted with a Bioport and jumps spine-first into a virtual world he never stepped foot in before. The eXistenZ game system sets him and Allegra down into a weird arcade and then into someplace called the Trout Factory, where the innards of watery mutants are used to manufacture game pods. As things turn out, the same forces that catalyzed the assassin in the church hall exist in this alternate reality. To Allegra's foes, eXistenZ is the antithesis of authentic existence, and Allegra the antichrist. What starts as a euphoric trip becomes Allegra and Ted's not-so-excellent adventure.
All of Leigh's quirks work for her as Allegra: For once, she really seems to be creating a character out of self-absorption and dreaminess and a fragile, hard-to-pin-down sexuality. And Law, who was over the top or (under the bottom) as Bosie in Wilde (1997), appears to enjoy playing a regular guy. Leigh is a bit claylike, Law a smidgen Plasticine--yet those qualities fit an artist who forms herself through work and a yuppie who aims to get ahead in a brave new world. They enable Cronenberg to twist the film this way and that without losing its integrity.
The central joke of the movie isn't hard to figure out; what's fun is how many gags Cronenberg can funnel into it, from alarming special-effects slapstick (like a squiggly mini-pod popping itself whole into a Bioport) to beautifully timed routines about the nature of eXistenZ, er, existence. In the virtual world, when Ted resists following the rules of the game, he throws the other characters into a "game loop" in which they repeat previous behavior--it's a primal riff on philosopher Henri Bergson's theory of comedy as disrupted habit. But not all the curlicues are joy rides. At one point, the game impels Ted to commit murder. He resists, in vain, but Allegra eggs him on and urges him to savor the act. In a nonmoralistic way, the film explores how the extreme excitement of gamesmanship--aesthetic or kinetic--bleeds through into life. Ted starts to feel as if he's "disconnected from my real life," as if he's "losing touch with the texture of it." But Allegra responds, "It means your nervous system is fully engaging with the game architecture. The game is a lot more fun to play when it starts to feel realer than real."
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