Film Notes: Videodrome

At the intersection of cinema’s mind and body resides David Cronenberg; an artist equally skilled in the cerebral and the visceral. 1983 proved a watershed year for this weaver of flesh: February saw the release of techpocalypse squelcher Videodrome, while October offered his chilly adaptation of Stephen King’s The Dead Zone. Although The Dead Zone opened to relative success, Videodrome’s birth proved fraught. The film’s challenging content fell victim to numerous censor cuts, the final product turned only $2 million on a $5.9 million CAD budget, and a now-infamous test audience survey reads only, in all caps scrawled across the page: “SUCKED.” 

The pitiful reception is not surprising; this tale of the melding between minds and media proves difficult even on a good day. But Cronenberg is not a director of comfort; his work is strange and confrontational in a mode which demands thought and revisitation. It is also, as one character remarks, “for perverts only.” Perverts like James Woods’ Max Renn, the president of small-time Toronto network Civic TV and a hound for the next big thing in sex and violence. Only a queasy pirate broadcast known as “Videodrome” catches Renn’s attention: packed with “torture, murder, mutilation,” and other unpleasantries, Max intends to track down Videodrome for the sake of both acquisition and morbid curiosity. Soon he tumbles headfirst into a web of intrigue, sadism, and bodies gone amuck – appropriately designated “the freaky stuff.” Freaky indeed.

Whereas Cronenberg’s prior works such as Scanners stem from a distrust of the medical establishment, Videodrome – similar to later work eXistenZ – prods anxieties over technological advancements and the way society (literally; disgustingly) integrates with them. This addressment of concerns is common within the science-fiction sphere where Cronenberg operates, but there’s few of his films which feel as relevant in the Internet age as Videodrome: a parable on the symbiotic, and often parasitic, relationship between the consumer and the consumed; concrete and confident yet ambiguous enough to map across any number of real-life concerns.

Naturally, we can't discuss the brain without also discussing the body. Videodrome’s body is beautiful; an icy-hot 89 minutes punctuated by a career-highlight score from Howard Shore, disgusting effects courtesy Rick Baker, and uniformly strong performances. The crown jewel is Blondie’s Debbie Harry as Nicki Brand; the character through which the larger text of Videodrome unfolds. After their meet-cute on a panel regarding graphic content in television, performative pervert Max balks at Nicki’s invitation to cut her during a sexual encounter. He’s all bark and no bite, and Nicki is only the first of many who will outclass and outmaneuver Renn to utilize Videodrome for their own purposes. He’s a man without morals; endlessly manipulated and a literal receptacle for whatever ideology is fed to him – we’re told Videodrome is dangerous not because of its content, but because “it has a philosophy;” something Max ultimately lacks.

The same is true for Videodrome as a film. It is dense with philosophy; packed with so many ideas that the brain struggles at first glance. But like the eponymous mutant transmission, Videodrome is an experience which requires interpretation to fill in the context of what horrors you did or didn’t see. It infiltrates minds with violent sensuality and disturbing thematics, leaving viewers frightened, confused, and – if you can tune into its particular wavelength – wanting more. After all, isn’t the point of any television program to keep you coming back; to draw you in and seduce you? Make no mistake, Videodrome is a seductive film. Be careful you don’t get too close though. As our hapless Max Renn discovers: “It bites.”

If you enjoyed this article, please consider becoming a patron of Hyperreal Film Journal for as low as $3 a month!