The Brood
Set in inner most canadian iciness, juxtaposing harsh brutalist exteriors towards scarcely less inviting cinder-block and wooden-panel interiors, the film gives off the influence—as maximum david cronenberg movies do—of a neat, clinically surgical treatment, that in spite of the mealy horror set portions, its auteur is in very best command of his communiqué. Not anything may be in addition from the case, and the results are crucial. As diminutive killer homunculi start concentrated on everybody close to him, frank, the director’s bland stand-in, launches a one-man investigation into raglan’s techniques, searching out unhappy customers, they all guys, they all scarred.
The implication that to confront one’s feelings—as nola, and implicitly women en toto, very an awful lot can—is tantamount to playing with fire clashes spectacularly with the form of white-rage attitude that might degree a scene as shockingly bonkers because the murder of a preschool trainer in full view of her weeping students. Even cronenberg himself closes his twisted excoriation of marriage as a polluted procreative transaction despairingly uncertain of ways the cycle can ever be unbroken.