Theatrical Poster
Oooooh, I’m so mad! Grrrrr! Work, money, sex… I’ve got more issues than Reader’s Digest. I am blubbering with frustration over my painful checkered past and lashing out violently at unsuspecting strangers, some of whom enjoy the punishment and offer to pay me. Sure, I take the money but, goddamn it, that’s not the point! I need some kind of ridiculous kind of spectacular psychotherapy, like est or primal screaming.
Once, I did try the treatment I saw in David Cronenberg’s curious disappointment, The Brood.
Author of the book, The Shape of Rage (which has nothing to do with Danny Boyle), Dr. Hal Raglan (Oliver Reed) runs the Somafree Institute of Psychoplasmatics. That sounded awesome to me. I figured Psychoplasmatics would involve getting a Mohawk, putting electrical tape over my nipples and killing showering women with a chainsaw. Nope. Raglan manages to convince his patients that he is the object of their anger. He’s your abusive parent, he’s your snarky co-worker and he’s your ratty ex-husband. Raglan, in character, antagonizes his clients to the point that their rage takes on physical form. This one guy broke out in hives and pustules working through his Daddy issues. The entertainment value of the sessions is undeniable. Their effectiveness is questionable.
Dr. Raglan approaches me, smelling of cheap bourbon, expensive aftershave, and a head full of bad wrong. “Go through it, Jeff,” he snarls. “Go all the way through it.”
Nola Carveth (Samantha Eggar) is Raglan’s star patient. She’s mad at absolutely everyone. Her mother was an abusive drunk, Daddy knew what was going on with Mommy but didn’t protect his little girl, and now her husband, Frank (Art Hindle) wants sole custody of their daughter, Candice (Cindy Hinds). She was mad at me, too. I knew I shouldn’t have dipped my finger in her tapioca, but I just couldn’t help it.
When Carveth discovers bruises on Candice’s back after bringing her home from a weekend with Mommy at Somafree, he hits the roof. Legally, though, his hands are tied. Any disruption in the agreed-upon visitation arrangements could lead to a vicious custody battle. Even though Nola is in a glorified insane asylum, Carveth’s lawyer informs him that “… the court believes in motherhood.”
“Who’s there?” I ask. “Daddy? Mommy? Auntie Em? Oh, god, it’s a twister! It’s a twister!”
Frank leaves little Candice with Nola’s mother, Juliana (Nuala Fitzgerald), so he can go to work. Simultaneously, Nola is projecting her hatred of Mommie Dearest onto Dr. Raglan during a particularly intense Psychoplasmatics session. While Candice looks at old family pictures, Juliana hears strange noises in the kitchen. What she discovers is a horde of rampaging gremlins, eating her food and looking for that annoying Mogwai!
Sorry. I made that up. At least that would have been cool.
What Juliana really finds is a gnarly midget with funky teeth and necrotic hands, hurling cereal and small appliances at her face. The tiny intruder is wearing a red fleece sweat suit, replete with hoodie. That’s right: Death wears an elastic waistband. The little freak quickly drops Juliana to her knees and pounds her skull in with a meat hammer.
Something similar happened during one of my sessions. As I was talking about my mother to Dr. Raglan, she was visited by Jehovah’s Witnesses. Coincidence? I think not.
“Go through it,” Raglan growls. “Who am I to you?”
“Fagin?” I ask. He hits me. It feels like love.
The movie’s question becomes who are these little weirdos in running suits and why are they killing everyone in Frank Carveth’s life? Could they (duh) possibly have anything (duh) to do with the Somafree Institute (double dog duh)?
Cronenberg veers away from his normal sort of movie. He does have a fascination with the human body turning against itself, usually mutating into something meta-human. I like those movies. I really do. But this one kind of goes against that particular grain. That’s okay, too, I suppose. I’m not upset about it.
The Brood also suffers more than usual from the typical Cronenberg dragginess. It’s a slow movie, that’s for sure. Not really a big deal, I don’t guess, but I spent a lot of time just sort of waiting for something to happen. I am a patient man, though. I have time.
And The Brood themselves, the little monsters in track outfits, just aren’t that scary. They’re kind of funny. They scream and growl and kill people. They infiltrate schools and playgrounds like miniature Sho Kosugis, but they’re still kind of cute, in the way elderly dwarves are cute. Kind of like wrinkledy Garbage Pail Kids that murder the innocent. I was saddened by the missed opportunities for merchandising. What kid wouldn’t love a plush Brood doll? I would.
“I know who you are now,” I say. “I understand.”
Go ahead,” says Dr. Raglan as I rise to me feet. “Let your anger out fiercely and honestly.” My anger rises up and I point an accusing finger in Raglan’s face.
The acting is good, particularly Samantha Eggar, who makes Nola not just crazy, but really crazy. She’s fun to watch. And who doesn’t love Oliver Reed, the great British actor who graced the horror genre with some of the finest over-the-top performances since Richard Burton in The Medusa Touch? He plays Dr. Raglan understated and intense. You also get to see him in a bathrobe. That, my friends, is teh hawt.
So overall, I guess The Brood isn’t that bad of a movie. It has some good points. You know. Things I liked about it.
“You’re David Cronenberg!” I cry. “What the fuck were you thinking when you made this movie? I know you were going through a rough time personally, but in the name of Marilyn Chambers, what the hell? It’s like a mixture of Forbidden Planet and Newsies! It’s boring as shit, the gore is practically non-existent, as is the nudity. I mean, you’re Cronenberg! How can you make a movie with no nudity? I loved you! I trusted you! And you betrayed me, you Canuck son of a bitch! This movie is poop! Poop, I say! I can’t recommend this, not even to people who watch nothing but the Bowflex instructional video!”
“Go through the whole thing,” says Dr. Raglan.
“Oh, shut the hell up, you pompous, overblown, heavy-handed social commentator. Why don’t you and Romero get together and fist each other during an episode of 60 Minutes? And, dammit, make some movies about a guy who turns into a VHS after he balls the bejesus out of Debbie Harry, okay?”
The room filled with a soft warm light.
I was healed.
The session was over.
