In the opening of David Cronenberg’s “The Shrouds,” we find Vincent Cassel’s Karsh — a grieving tech mogul fashioned in a similar style to the film’s director — lying on a dental chair. His doctor points out that his teeth may be experiencing a kind of grief-induced rot and begins to reminisce about his patient’s late wife, Becca (Diane Kruger). The dentist remarks that he still has Becca’s files, raising the question: “Do you want JPEGs?” Known for his eclectic oeuvre consisting of body horror classics like “Videodrome” (1983) and crime thrillers like “Eastern Promises” (2007), the 82-year-old Canadian filmmaker’s latest release feels like one of his most ambitious yet personal works. Having lost his own wife in 2017, Cronenberg knows the cruel chokehold grief has on a person, while also attempting to dissect our dizzying existence in a conspiracy-fueled world.
Karsh is the CEO of GraveTech. His company developed a proprietary high-tech burial shroud that can stream a 24/7, 360-degree view of late loved ones onto touchscreen headstones and a smartphone app — all in crisp HD resolution. After one of his graveyards is vandalized, he teams up with his conspiracy nut sister-in-law Terry (Diane Kruger) — who looks identical to Becca — and her incel software engineer ex-husband Maury (Guy Pearce) to investigate. What ensues is a ridiculous cat-and-mouse chase throughout Toronto and across cyberspace. Becca’s shady cancer doctor, a Chinese corporate conspiracy, eco-terrorists, a terminally ill Hungarian oligarch and the vague threat of “Russian satellites” elude and misdirect the increasingly paranoid technopreneur. Much of the film is spent navigating this complex web of conspiracies, as well as Karsh’s own tense relationships within his sexually frustrated inner circle.
Though partially inspired by Cronenberg’s own persona, Cassel’s depiction of a lovelorn, genius tech mogul subtly channels the narcissistic mania found in the likes of Kanye West and Elon Musk. At the beginning of the film, Karsh seems unfazed. This projection of confidence nearly convinces us he has a firm grip on company operations and his deep-seated sorrows. Over the course of the film’s chaotic plot, it is revealed that Karsh is in fact almost entirely incompetent. Cassel plays the role with the perfect spiraling cluelessness, hopelessly following one dead-end lead to the next, while either angering or sleeping with every person in his life. Though Karsh is our designated guide, it is the rest of the ensemble that fleshes out the dysfunction of “The Shrouds.” Pearce’s performance as an unstable, unkempt and insecure tech bro is the perfect balance between pathetic and unnerving. Kruger, who plays three roles in the film, including an Artificial intelligence assistant modelled after Karsh’s late wife, hangs over the film with a seductive spectral presence. Whether through video call user interfaces or haunting dreams, Kruger blurs the boundaries between reality, virtual space and the afterlife.
Originally pitched as a series for Netflix, which the streamer canceled after viewing Cronenberg’s pilot, a lot of the film’s dramatic pacing is like that of a soap opera. Corporate subterfuge and erotic nightmares aside, most scenes consist of people talking in rooms and over the phone or typing on various devices. Most shots also have a sterile Apple commercial aesthetic, avoiding any bright bursts of color and placing characters in generic downtown Toronto backdrops. Whether it is a desktop display, Karsh’s Tesla tablet or smartphone screens, electronic interfaces are regularly in the frame. In the hands of a less capable filmmaker, much of this would feel stilted, but Cronenberg pinpoints the frustrated emotional core burrowed in our world of oversaturated techno-consumerism.
Despite the image of unprecedented connection that Silicon Valley sells to its buyers, “The Shrouds” does not buy into this illusory sense of community. The phones and cloud services that purportedly connect us instantaneously in fact appear to isolate and monitor our every thought. Even in death, Cronenberg shows an eerily feasible reality where our bodies continue to be the object of digital observation. Our bones are carefully being scrutinized by irreparably damaged lovers and faceless cyber-spies alike. When loved ones pass, a meaningless void of despair tears through reality, threatening to suck one in lest they desperately cling onto the weeds of the past. In our present moment of crisis, where all that is familiar seems to be imminently collapsing, a mindless existence driven by algorithmic forces — riddled with misinformation and excess — becomes our recourse to dealing with collective grief.
Contact Mick Gaw at [email protected].
