Crash

by Anna Pulley

Crash (David Cronenberg 1996)

I'm an avid reader of Dan Savage's advice column Savage Love, which has brought my attention to a variety of sexual fetishes I would've otherwise never knew existed - "soiling," being smothered by bread, etc. but fetishizing car crashes? That was a new one, and I'm kind of a perv so that's saying something. But with a tagline that proclaims to be "The most controversial film you will ever see" I should have perhaps expected something ostentatious. Such is the beauty of fiction, I suppose.

David Cronenberg's adaptation comes from a J.G. Ballard novel of the same name. When film producer James Ballard (that sexy devil from The Secretary, James Spader) collides head on with another car, killing the driver and leaving passenger Helen Remington (that sexy devil from The Piano, Holly Hunter) scarred and bewildered, the crash ignites a perverse hunger for more. James and Helen meet several more times and begin having sexual trysts in cars before being introduced to the underground cult of other brain damaged, scarred car crash fetishists, led by Vaughan (that not-at-all-sexy devil from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Elias Koteas) who looks like a role model for people who want to live in Tim Burton movies. Since James and his wife Catherine (Deborah Kara Unger) are fairly well versed in bizarre sexual rituals - they get off by talking about the various infidelities they've committed - it's not surprising that Catherine hops right onto the shaggin' wagon, becoming more and more sexually aroused by potential car accidents and by Vaughan's bodily deformities. Unger manages the same look of bored indifference throughout the film, which is kind of amazing considering she's in a bevy of fucktacular and violent scenes. Her nonchalance is both sexy and tiring - whether being sodomized or making a casserole, her face always bore the same blank expression. And being the only car crash groupie who hadn't been involved in an actual accident, Vaughan makes sure Catherine's "initiation" is particularly grueling. The scene following it shows Catherine naked on a bed, bruises, hand prints and dried blood all around her porn-sculpted snatch.

Vaughan, the master of car-emonies, defines his fetish as "a liberation of sexual energy - mediating the sexuality of those who have died with an intensity that's impossible in any other form." I mean, sure, if I was sexually aroused by fender benders, I'd probably try to justify it in some way as well, but Vaughan's speech brings to mind the misguided idealism of eco-porn enthusiasts, those who think that fucking each other with cucumbers is somehow going to save the rain forest. Cronenberg had me until that little tirade, which is, (bless you IMDB) interestingly enough, taken verbatim from one of J.G. Ballard's earlier books, not from Crash. Other anomalies include the leading ladies' propensity for flashing one boob, starting with Catherine's sexcapade up against an airplane that opens the film. Next is Helen, who flashes James directly after their collision as she "struggles" to get her seat belt off. It happens again the first time they have sex. Then, Gabriella (Rosanna Arquette) flashes one boob as she and James are getting their crippled groove on in a convertible. Then Catherine again, while in the backseat with Vaughan in a car wash, takes her right tit out as if it needed some air. Five times is too many to be coincidental, but I couldn't for the life of me determine what larger scope these flashings were supposed to convey. A headlight analogy? Misguided Oedipal urges? I just don't know.

In the end, their dangerous fetish has quite a few more consequences than tousled hair and sore muscles but it does seem to bring this group of misfits happiness, including the once-rocky marriage of James and Catherine. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to save the rain forest.