Hello. Hello.
I know my deafening silence after Prometheus must have had
some of you combing the obituaries. Rest
assured, dolls - I am not, in fact, dead.
Better still, I finally found something worth talking about!
Brandon Cronenberg’s Antiviral is the only horror film to see this year. It’s better than Noomi Rapace running down that space hallway with her tummy stapled. It’s better than Nicole Kidman biting her lips and feeling up on her pussy in the front seat of Zac Efron’s Chevy. It’s better than Nicole Kidman peeing on Zac Efron’s face after he got stung by all those CGI jellyfish. It’s even better than Zac Efron yelling, “What’s the plastic for!?!” (Okay, ThePaperboy is pretty awesome too).
I'm obsessed. I'm giddy. I'm not even drunk. Antiviral is a film that's full of needle-sharp commentary
on our ever-snowballing obsession with celebrity (Lohan/Bynes death
race!) and health care reform. More importantly, this film aesthetically GORGEOUS. The austere proceedings are capped off by an old-Hollywood performance from Caleb Landry Jones who looks absolutely stunning throughout. I’m talking true beauty.
Being David Cronenberg's son, I'm sure Brandon must be sick to death of the comparisons so I'm going to make another: at it's best, this movie belongs on the shelf right next to Shivers and Dead Ringers. Go see it. Tell your friends. See it again. If a movie like Antiviral is successful, people will be empowered to make more movies
like Antiviral and then people named Jeffrey would maybe have to start writing more
than once every two years.
Loving - always,
JGM
