The line between this and a Black Mirror episode (or an Alex Garland work) is way thinner than it should be thanks to the bland, streaming series-y form and score, neutering the gore, cryptic visuals, and mindfuck plot (which itself is hampered by off-balance pacing). As an original piece of sci-fi, this is mainly saved by the younger Cronenberg's commitment to continuing his dad's inspired, always relevant visions of corporate/tech-backed bodily violation set in the same faceless, isolating Toronto that inspired William Gibson. The de rigueur spec-fic questions of identity and privacy are frankly kinda trite compared to the far more mundane but much more horrifying depiction of dead-eyed condo-dwellers disinterestedly vaping, fucking, drinking, and snorting in between day jobs that destroy their souls and slowly tear the rest of the world apart. Us millennials are truly a lost generation.

Phil liked this review