Videodrome

David Cronenberg's Fahrenheit 451, if you please, a masterpiece on the emerging pornocracy. "Grotesque, as promised." A hero for "overstimulated times," the cable entrepreneur (James Woods) chasing the next technological high, a clandestine snuff channel points the way. The red torture chamber on the scrambled monitor, soon to permeate his dreams alongside the masochistic radio hostess (Debbie Harry). The pirate transmission that turns out to be a corporate prototype, virtual reality as Borgesian prophecy, a joke on programming an assassin vis-à-vis programming a VCR. "Let's open those neural floodgates." Lang's The 1000 Eyes of Dr. Mabuse is brought to bear upon the death of Marshall McLuhan, O'Blivion the video guru (Jack Creley) survives as a roomful of cassettes managed by his daughter (Sonja Smits). The greatest of dangers, "a philosophy," given visceral form—the pulsing tape that's jammed into a vaginal fissure on the protagonist's stomach, the fused pistol that emerges to shoot cancerous tumors. From octagon-framed glasses to brain waves, conquest of the retina. (A choice sight gag finds construction workers moving vast portals in the middle of a chase.) Russell's Tommy informs the beckoning pink mouth on the bulging television screen, Godard's Prénom Carmen is concurrent with the silhouetted hand over blue static. The marketing and consumption of images is a cold and vicious business, the nefarious CEO of Spectacular Optical Corporation (Leslie Carlson) quotes Lorenzo de Medici and takes the long view. "You'll forgive me if I don't stay around to watch. I just can't cope with the freaky stuff." Cronenberg has legitimately transgressive concepts plus the courage to run them to their limits: The altar of the New Flesh is last seen smoldering amidst scattered entrails, in due time the disciples find a grid to plug into (eXistenZ). With Peter Dvorsky, Lynne Gorman, and Julie Khaner.