Possessor ★★★½

The year is 1986. David Cronenberg returns home after a long day on the set of The Fly. Six year old Brandon Cronenberg is at the kitchen table, drawing. "Whatcha got there?" asks Papa Cronenberg, peering over his son's shoulder to admire his latest artistic creation. Little Brandon proudly holds up a sketch done in crayon of a nude man with a bloody eyestalk swinging between his legs where his cock should be. David smiles, tousles his son's hair and sets to making a PB&J with a side of ketchup chips.

I'm growing preee-tty weary of the neon-lit droning of today's art-horror, but Cronenjunior more than makes up for it with some truly gnarly violence. Wish it spent a little less time navel gazing and a little more time developing its ideas about the intrusive nature of modern tech and the dangerous, depersonalizing effect it has on the people who work with it. Nice to hear Orville Peck playing in the background during that one scene where Vos-as-Tate and his shitty friends are doping it up in that expensive ass apartment.