Predators (dir. David Osit)
There is a 100% chance that Predators will be misinterpreted as being empathetic toward child molesters. The film, which is critical of not just the methods NBC’s To Catch a Predator, but the appetites of its audience, is one of the most effective (and upsetting) documentaries I’ve ever seen. It’s Nietzsche’s most famous quote, writ large:
“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
The film opens with chilling audio of one of the bait calls which drew the criminal mark to the famous faux-home where, after being brought inside by a younthful actor, was blindsided by an invite from Chris Hansen to “take a seat.” A childish voice speaks with the yet-to-be-arrested sex criminal, while he awkwardly tries to flirt, and even more awkwardly tries to tread lightly in terms of legality (joke’s on him, a crime has already been committed through the solicitation alone). We in the audience know that the child on the line is a fake, but it’s hard not to feel scared on behalf of the real victims for which she is a surrogate.
As the film progresses, and we learn more about T-CAP’s methods (yes, fans of the show call it “T-CAP”), one starts to wonder what the goal is here. And as a once-earnest investigative news segment starts to more closely resemble the circus-like tone of latter day Jerry Springer, Predators asks if anyone is really being helped — if any crimes are really being prevented, and if they are, at what moral cost to the predator hunters?
Having operated in the world of pop-culture criticism for a few years now, I always found my stomach grumbling a bit at the notion of cancel culture. On the one hand, I feel no sadness toward any sort of abuser or criminal who loses their livelihood over repugnant behavior. On the other hand, the rampant glee our culture exhibited in watching anyone at all crumble under the weight of a rabid mob seemed its own sort of repugnance. Predators gets to the heart of this in a way I’ve always failed to find proper words for, and it does so specifically without letting any of the sex criminals depicted within off the hook.
While I would have liked to see more material on the innerworkings of the T-CAP processes, to dig too deeply into such things would result in a documentary with different thematic goals. Instead, the filmmaker takes a more personal angle — it’s one of the rare instances of a documentarian inserting themselves into the story without it becoming an annoying ego project.
There’s a scene midway through the film that captures some of the most heartbreaking audio I’ve ever heard, and it’s not at all what you’d expect. Predators is bold, fearless filmmaking, and I recommend it to everyone and no one.
The Shrouds (dir. David Cronenberg)
In what is without a doubt the most divisive film of this year’s SpringFest, the legendary “flesh-forward” filmmaker David Cronenberg delivers his most personal film to date, and arguably his best since Crash (the car-fucking movie, not the racism movie with Tony Danza). In it we have Karsh (Vincent Cassel doing his best Cronenberg cosplay), a recent widower and tech magnate who, through his titular invention, is selling fellow grievers the opportunity to witness their lost loved ones’ decomposition in real time. A small monitor on the headstone allows the user, via the GraveTech app, to log in and view a live rendering of the deceased. For some, it’s a gruesome bit of digital excess. For folks like Karsh, it’s a way to remain close with their lost friends and family. Karsh soon notices anomalies on his wife’s remains. And when the premiere GraveTech cemetery is vandalized, he wonders if maybe something unseemly (a relative term) is afoot.
It’s a mistake to get too wrapped up in the plot specifics of this heavily tone-based movie, but that isn’t to say it’s empty, or random for random’s sake. Just that if you’re looking for clean answers, it’s unlikely you’ll find them by attempting to decode what’s real and what isn’t, or who’s behind it all. It’s no secret that Cronenberg began his work on The Shrouds after his wife of nearly 40 years passed in 2017. Is there anyone in the planet more suited to explore death and grief, two decidedly analog experiences, in a digital world? And what if the person you’re grieving is someone with whom you’ve experienced a physical/sexual connection? And what if that person’s body, the one you coveted with your whole libido, is ultimately what turned against them?
Like grief, The Shrouds is not to be understood so much as its to be experienced. Anyone who has experienced profound grief knows that logic has little to do with it (and suspecting ties to an international tech conspiracy isn’t the craziest reaction a widower could have).
The Shrouds is a slow movie, but if you catch its vibes, it’s quite enjoyable (and rather dryly funny — the way life can be in the wake of tragedy). If you don’t vibe with it it’s likely you’ll find it boring (the way life can also be in the wake of tragedy). There’s such a fine line between flat and metered, but Cassel finds it. This is helped greatly, of course by a manic supporting performance from Guy Pearce, as well as a triple performance from Diane Kruger as both Karsh’s deceased wife (in flashbacks), her surviving twin sister, and the avatar of his digital assistant (think Siri, but more personal). The film’s most compelling performance comes from Sandrine Holt, the mysterious blind woman, and future widow, who starts a steamy romance with Karsh while negotiating her ailing husband’s burial. I can’t quite put my finger on what her deal is, but her canine assistant doesn’t act the way seeing eye dogs are supposed to…
