Crash ★★★★½

A fetish to die for. No film is quite like Crash. This is something disturbed and moody, often without words. It's a lean, potent movie, that cuts down its story until the only thing remaining is an unexplained desire left as symbolism for sexual modernity. Sex mechanised, like internet porn. Human contact gone, just a sterile thrill. Characters in Crash live for a thrill, to feel what others feel. The body no longer belongs to itself, but to all who look through as a voyeur. In a world of metal, tarmac, and concrete, Crash finds the cracks in society, the places it can stimulate and squeeze itself in. We watch a flat world, one detached and unemotional. As the characters thrill over sex and car accidents, the film stares and unsettles. We are left with ominous music and a sense of unease. In a shiny, modern world, the underworld of pleasure becomes emboldened to new extremes. We are presented with a cultural trend towards psychopathy, of the merge between the technological and the sexual, death just a part of the process. Fuck next to crushed metal, find new crevices and kinks to explore. This is a film of bloodless scars, where years of pleasurable damage leave permanent marks on the body. Crash is perverse, but it cuts much deeper than its shock value. It explores modern sexuality in a stripped back yet intense way. Each scene is an extended climax, of new heights in a dark and dangerous sexual abyss. But soon everyone must come crashing down.

"Maybe the next one..."

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