Naked Lunch (1991) ****1/2
In which David Cronenberg brilliantly merges his own sensibilities with aspects of William S. Burroughs' “unfilmable” 1959 novel and the author's own life to make a narrative film that retains a hallucinatory, surreal quality. 1991's Naked Lunch—like Cronenberg's 1996 adaptation (review) of J.G. Ballard's Crash (1973) (review)—is a marriage made in heaven, one that makes total sense. I say that as someone who has not read the source novel, but from my limited knowledge of Burroughs (along with my understanding that Cronenberg's film only sparingly adapted the book), I can't imagine anyone else having made this movie.
When I was younger I loved Cronenberg's films because they were weird, gory, and unique. As I revisit them in my forties, the through line of his themes*, the downbeat tone of his work, and the intellectual and satirical elements all have become just as important. (*For instance I never noticed the striking parallels between NL and Videodrome (1983) (review) previously.)
NL offers lots to love—Cronenberg's delicious dialogue, Peter Weller's deadpan performance, Chris Walas' wonderfully gooey creature effects, Howard Shore and Ornette Coleman's bebop jazz score, and Peter Suschitzky's exquisitely expressionistic cinematography (looking more stunning than ever on Arrow Video's 4K UHD release). A noir-tinged masterpiece featuring healthy doses of Cronenberg's predilection for sci-fi, (body) horror, and psychosexual imagery, Naked Lunch is a singular slice of cinema.
Exterminate all rational thought.
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