Cracked necks. Bodies stabbed by those who bare their guts. Faces crushed into heaps of minced flesh, eyes rolling, veins exposed. Blood, semen, and vomit spewing from wounds and orifices. Dark theatrical sex parties where bodies morph in uncanny ways. All these shocking images pile up in the footage of The Infinity Pool, a film already making waves as one of the most obscene and scandalous titles of 2023. It’s still early to crown such a claim, but any contender to outdo it will face a formidable challenge.
Arriving at the Berlinale out of competition, Infinity Pool seems to seal Brandon Cronenberg’s resolve to push boundaries even further than his father did. A pioneer of a genre once dubbed body fright, David Cronenberg’s son used his feature debut Antiviral (2012) to weaponize disturbing visuals against a critique of our collective obsession and the erosion of individual autonomy. The Owner (2020) followed, and with Infinity Pool he shifts focus toward a satirical take on a new global order that grants the privileged a near-absolute impunity.
The central figure is a mediocre writer who, while vacationing with his wife at a luxury resort in an unnamed tropical country, encounters a society where the rules feel unevenly applied. A man involved in a fatal accident finds himself tangled with a circle of hedonists who chase ecstasy through sexuality, sadism, hallucinogens, and a controversial indigenous technology that fuels addictive experiences.
Could Infinity Pool disclose the guilt and privilege that come with a last name and a manager’s influence? The spectacle appears to resist simple reading. It hints at the artist’s acknowledged debt to his father while insisting on a distinct tonal approach. Both Cronenbergs lodge an interest in human self-destruction and in the interplay between pain and pleasure, or violence and eroticism. Yet the differences are clear: David’s work often keeps a clinical distance from its objects, whereas Infinity Pool embraces the lure of shock with a relentless cascade of sound and image. The father’s detachment is replaced here by a palpable urgency to provoke. What starts as provocative remains, at times, bold but then drifts toward a sense of childish repetition that makes the film feel less substantial than its audacious premise would suggest.
animated art
Makoto Shinkai’s star has kept rising since Your Name. The filmmaker continues to weave a storytelling approach built on luminous romance, perilous journeys, and the constant threat of catastrophe. His latest work competes for the Golden Bear and stands as a strong candidate for the prize, reflecting a cinema that blends intimate emotion with epic spectacle.
Suzume follows the journey of a young orphan girl accompanied by a companion who serves as a quirky guide through a world where interdimensional portals appear. A talking cat and a mysterious companion transform into a three-legged chair as the pair work to prevent a colossal worm from entering our reality and unleashing seismic devastation that could claim countless lives. The premise is intricate, yet the film leans into its genre conventions and metaphoric storytelling. The premise would frustrate anyone who craves linear explanations, but it rewards patience with rich imagery and a symbolic arc that centers on healing a nation haunted by a devastating past. The 2011 disaster event that shaped this history is a constant undercurrent, and Suzume becomes a testament to Shinkai’s ability to conjure visually overwhelming scenes. This is cinema pushed to the extreme, where mood, color, and movement convey feeling more powerfully than exposition alone.