Videodrome and Infections of Video Violence
The prosecution insisted that the videocassettes that were seized from VIPCO’s offices were:
“An extravaganza of gory violence, capable of depraving and corrupting those who watched them”
and required that they forfeit 590 copies plus the master tapes to prevent any further reproduction.”
Nasty Business: The Marketing and Distribution of the Video Nasties
Modern civilisation functions on repression. At least, according to famed neurologist Sigmund Freud (Felluga, 2011), for a society to run successfully, unimpeded by setbacks that range from petty squabbles, to major criminality and complete moral decay, it requires the conscious human brain to actively ignore its ‘primitive impulses’, in order to focus on that which is ‘socially higher’ and retain natural, sophisticated order. Life flourishes under repression. Of course, when these ‘primitive impulses’ are succumbed to - those dark, urging imperatives whispering terrible commands and compulsions into the motor functions of the frontal lobe - there is nothing less we must expect than an inevitable and complete structural breakdown.
Canadian auteur and filmmaker David Cronenberg is no stranger to the collapse of social order. Indeed, many, if not most, of the films in his long standing and illustriously-odd career point to this very condition: crafting body-horrific science-fiction and horror tales, each imbued with a consistent desire to explore the very limits of our societal and physical boundaries. These allegorised parables outline the dangers that may arise from the ignorance of this repression, while proselytising the damaging, selfish terror that these uninhibited impulses could unleash on the world and its inhabitants.
Often, throughout these cinematic adventures, these transgressive expressions are seen to take on a monstrous form, manifested in extreme bodily alteration, and cinematically exacerbated by Cronenberg’s proclivity to champion tangible practical effects. Its use is prolific - the list is long and as odd as it is entertaining: James Woods’ new (and newly invasive) vaginal slit in Videodrome (1982), housing both an active, aggressive weapon and a passive mind-altering video-tape; Jeff Goldblum’s twitching and decaying, lesion-scored body in The Fly (1986), simultaneously killing him and ascending him to an entirely new evolutionary plain; the Mugwumps and Beetle-Typewriters talking out of their assholes that pervade the eccentric recountings of Naked Lunch (1992) - there is plenty to intrigue and, ultimately, revolt, in equal measure.
The physicality this brings about in the viewer inspires a visceral reaction that calls to mind Kristeva’s (1984, p. 4) concept of abjection - that unsettling ‘thing’ which defies established borders and rules to disturb individual identity and wider social order. Since ‘body boundaries … contain and repress the abject’ (Beard, 2001, p. 29), the breakdown of these boundaries allows all manner of abject to erupt outward from our deviant’s bodies. This is regularly exhibited in traits of lacking purity (Creed, 1993, p. 9): sexual immorality and perversion; corporeal alteration, decay and death; human sacrifice; murder; the corpse; even simple bodily wastes. With such colourful attributes, one would be permitted to assume that this abjection inspires feelings of disgust in the protagonist, but the enticing promise of new, taboo emotions and experiences, ever-spurred on by their own selfish urges, ‘fascinates desire’ in these characters (and thus, in the audience). Historically, this desire ‘must be repelled for fear of self-annihilation’ (p. 10), but, frequently, it is not.
This desiring erotic trait is reflected in Cronenberg’s films, wherein the change is often galvanised through the erotic awakening of uncommon sexual expression. And indeed, Freud does suggest that the sexual impulse is the strongest of these primitive urges (Felluga) - within Cronenberg’s films, his central (and usually male) protagonists are seduced by the dangerous tantalisations of the maliciously intending (and usually female) sexual interests. Once more, we can see a throughline of such in Cronenberg’s erotically-charged body of work - Nicki Brand’s cooing and sexually-adventurous allure, inspiring no shortage of violence and sadism in her name; James Spader’s life-changing automobile incident that unlocks an unnatural, technological world of vehicular orgasms in Crash (1996); even the eroticised bio-mechanical port-ins of the eXistenZ (1999) world, plugging Jude Law and Jennifer Jason Leigh into a video game full of graphic violence, viscera and vulgarity.
For a comfortable return to the status-quo, this violent, untamed expression of damaging impulses must be combated through a reclamation of the subjects’ humanity, allowing a return to their repressed self - however, Cronenberg’s films explicitly identify that this is inevitably and inherently unfeasible. This impossibility results from two things: first, the all-consuming nature of the expressive change in question - this ‘abjection can never be simply good’ (Beard, 2001, p. 400) and whilst it may originally inspire what appears as positive change, the cracks soon start to show and total collapse becomes imminent. The second is explained with the inherent understanding that these impulses are not new, they were always present, simply buried deep below a mask of polite dignity (whether unconsciously or consciously). In these films, ‘the monstrous is always monstrous’ and once the first step has been placed on this slippery slope, the protagonist's fate is sealed. Certainly, the end result of many of these films’ central characters is suicide - Max Renn in Videodrome, Seth Brundle in The Fly, even James Ballard’s Crash-fuelled eroticism posits the sexual zenith, the ultimate orgasm, as that of death. That these central ideas are so persistent in Cronenberg’s worlds betrays a certain nihilism and existential, self-destructive attitude that pervades both his filmmaking style and beliefs. On this, Cronenberg’s ideology stands fast, sturdy, and unchanging - a considerable dichotomy of repression and transgression, each belief battling for dominance over the other throughout decades of cinematic work.
Within his filmic oeuvre, this battle is played across a multitude of genres and films, fought by the narratives’ characters and creatures. But, within the real world, this never-ending conflict frequently manifests itself in the political struggle for moral good, fought across and about the very films that explictise this righteous friction. Fearing the toxic and damaging effects of films, censorship has been implemented since the beginning of the 20th century, and indeed, since the beginnings of commercial cinema in general - legal age limits at all cinemas, eventually requiring identification for entry, the films themselves subject to cuts that doctored the content until it was cinematically and publicly approved, the Hays Code heydays of the 1950s, even more outrageous examples being banned from screening entirely. It was (relatively) healthily regulated, in a process aided primarily by the easily enforced rules and limited experience - outside of buying a second ticket to watch the film once more, you were relegated to a single viewing of any challenging material, and a rather fast-moving one at that.
However, with the advent of home video, this regulation was rendered near pointless - the unsuspecting video-rental store could easily stock all manner of controversial material, the legal age limits could be cleverly (or, with willing help, easily) circumvented and the technological advancements of the VCR afforded no limit to the watchability of certain morally-questionable sequences. Rewinding became a weapon. This issue, to begin with, was also exacerbated by the monochromatic variety of film even made available on home video - when VCRs were first popularised, most major studios were still unsure on the economic potential of this new media form, and, as such, the independent studios saw a literal “gap in the market”, slotting their VHS tapes in to the hole of the ‘fledgling industry’ to play on unsuspecting audiences’ minds and VCRs. With video rights as cheap as £1000, the legal loopholes maintained that the ‘video shelves are well stocked with cheap exploitation fare’ (Petley, 2011, p. 17) at any available time.
These independent, exploitation productions were regularly imbued with a particular bite - a taste for outrageous violence, sexuality and gore, satiating the supposed bloodlust that the horror-heavy public was looking for. This was a unique selling point, an economic security for investors looking for a return on their profits. It is safe to say that this supposed ‘bloodlust’ for more violent content was actually present, and it scared people. Whilst the media and publications were responsible for whipping up an intensified and hyperbolic frenzy, overreacting in their definitions of what constituted a controversial cinema-piece, the sustained length of the campaign and the ferocity of convictions, censoring and panic that was to come suggests that the impact was one of significant note.
Nowhere was this panic more widespread and more consequential than in the UK throughout the 1980s. Unsurprisingly (given the time) this moral overcorrection finds its roots in the Thatcher regime and government - here, an all-consuming, national need to return to traditional values was reflected in every facet of life, including (and especially within) the home-front. It was official and widespread once the Daily Mail gave name to these offensive tapes - nationwide, concerned parents and intrusive over-anxious moralists feared the same name: Video Nasty.
Overwhelming coverage ensured that the public was forever focused on this new issue at hand, simultaneously blowing it out of proportion and allocating it the number one spot of political focus - of course, the 1980s in Britain were fraught with no limit of political issues, outrages and scandals, but, with this assigned “boogeyman”, the Video Nasty was elevated to the status of a major criminal and major concern. They quickly became ‘an all-purpose explanation for moral decline’ (McKenna, 2020, p. 11) within the nation, and soon, all other issues would fade into relative obscurity as the publications and politicians mounted an attack against these effecting, widespread and dangerous black-box tapes.
Attempts to regulate these films were developmental. Primary decisions included the cinematic method, attempting to cut the challenging material at the source - instead of shocking bodily alterations, we have alterations made to a filmmakers’ shocking body of work; instead of slicing cuts attacking the meat of helpless victims, we have slicing cuts attacking the meat of intended cinematic messages - no more untethered expression, only repression remains. Of course, this was a rather ineffective method, as the simple and unregulated distribution methods gave rise to (ironically named) “uncut” editions, boasting proudly their status of full provision of horrors.
The panic was rising. The issue was becoming a clear talking point. The Conservative government even went as far to promise ‘stricter obscenity laws in their election manifesto’, suggesting specific legislation to deal with ‘the dangerous spread of violent and obscene video cassettes’ (Petley, 2011, p. 28). The Government found their legislative backing in the implementation of The Obscene Publications Act 1959 (amended in 1977 to include erotic films in its coverage), a legislative piece which outlines that any item which does ‘tend to deprave and corrupt persons’ who encounter it is subject to legal intervention. Writing up a list of films (subject to monthly changes), and armed with truncheons and alarm bells in tow, the British Police Force seized as much stock as possible - prosecuting 39 out of 72 listed films (McKenna, 2020, p. 182) with criminal legal action, wherever the offending tapes were found.
The underlying anxiety was clear: fearful moralists believed that these dangerous ‘videos do get under our skin and change who we are’ - the video technology and the indecent content wound into the tapes it takes ‘mutates its spectator’s mind and imbues’ their unconscious brains with ‘violent video hallucinations’ (Benson-Allott, 2013, p. 101) and compulsions to enact this violence within the real world, on real people.
Cronenberg’s Videodrome not only confirms this fear, but makes its beliefs explicit. Max Renn, our slimy, unlikable (and ultimately passive) protagonist, is encouraged by the seductive, perhaps-unreal Blondie, and drawn into the shadowy world of Videodrome - a television signal that first appears to broadcast hardcore violence and torture, and little else. Once it is revealed to Renn that the signal he is receiving is actually responsible for creating a tumour in his brain that enables all manner of disbelieving hallucinations, he is slowly programmed - through the help of a fleshy VCR-like vaginal slit in his stomach, complete with an equally-fleshy, breathing videotape which delivers his violent commands - to enact murder on multiple conflicting parties.
Within this fantastical narrative, we have a clear, remarkably-unsubtle exploration of the literal dangers that videotapes can bring to those ingesting it - whether that be through the eyes and ears, as in the real world, or through a quasi-vagina, as in Videodrome. The concept may be sensationalised, but the messaging is clear - dangerous films create dangerous people. Though, politically, we have an interesting consideration. By bringing the direct, and entirely violent, consequences of closely associating with this dangerous media on both the consumers watching at home, those who program the content as dangerous-disseminators and damaging-distributors, and, of course, those who actively take part in its creation and conception, the film implicates all parties in its moral admonition. Similarly, the enacting forces, those players in the grand cultural battle, are both implicated. One is combating cultural decay and the other social disenfranchisement, each with seemingly-similar intentions and enthusiastic aplomb, though, oddly, with great dislike for the other - here, accomplishing their alike goals with the same methods. Violence abounds on both sides of the argument - whether it is “Death to Spectacular Optical” or it is “Death to Videodrome”, the controlling corporation is always painted in a negative light - uncaring for the consumers, manipulating them to violence for their own capital (but supposedly ethically-conscious) gain. Both sides in this hysterical battle are exaggerated with hyperbole of their own, but no matter which ‘master’ controls our dutiful and passive protagonist, the outcome is the same.
This nihilistic view, seemingly disregarding of the individual’s social responsibility, forever acting in the shadow and control of conspiratorial corporations, immediately calls to mind the writing of William S. Burroughs. Cronenberg himself (greatly influenced by Burroughs, as well as the rest of the Beat writers) explored these ideas within Naked Lunch, as much as he does within Scanners (1981) and Videodrome, and many other of his films - that ‘postmodern paranoid model of manipulation of helpless private individuals by predatory corporate forces under conditions of universal technological penetration and colonisation’ (Beard, p. 124) is a universally shared premise across his work. Though Naked Lunch operates as much as a personal exploration of Burroughs’ own life and shifting mental state as it does his own writing (autobiographical in nature, though seen through a fantastical drug-addled lens), the intimate complications of attaching personal demons (drug-use, homosexuality, disenfranchisement of his own) are similarly shared in Videodrome’s leading man. Here, the controlling conspiracy (that allows an ignorance of responsibility) extends to the ‘transgressive urges he feels within himself’ (p. 133) all the same - just as Burroughs was brought to drug-use and homosexuality by the “controlling forces'', Renn is brought to sadism and violence by the controlling tumour of Videodrome. Even the allegorised creatures that these compulsions manifest within seem to take similar life-like form - the 'bug-writers’ could easily be seen as ‘very close relatives of the “breathing” organic televisions and video cassettes of Videodrome’ (p. 318).
These conspiratorial corporations possess a dichotomous relationship with the media they produce - home-bound television screens (and the entertainment we watch on them) have both positive and negative attributes. Spectacular Optical may turn their nose at the filth of America, genociding those dirty and depraved individuals who engage with debaucherous entertainment, but they use their own methods of violence and entrapment, that ultimately imitates the media currently causing that cultural decay itself; similarly, the folks at the Cathode Ray Mission, the homeless shelter led by Brian O’Blivion (himself ascended), preach the power of television and its necessity to heal the great schism of disenfranchised American society - they use regular doses of television as a form of medicine, and comfortably enact violence in the name of their cause, much like their antagonistic foils do. Videodrome itself can be seen as holding this juxtaposing view - its narrative is critical of violence as much as its visuals are indulgent in its visceral splendour. But, of course it would hold that view - after all, it is the producer, not the consumer.
So, what of the consumer then? Mirroring the compulsively masochistic nature of Videodrome’s participants, Renn himself is drawn to self-destruction. Opening the film, he may hold the role of the sadist, willingly following Nicki’s requests to pierce, brand, whip and damage her corporeal body, accepting her invitation ‘across the border of prohibition into sadistic pleasure’ and subsequently inviting the beginning of hallucinatory, bodily changes into his life; as the film continues, and Renn opens himself up to further bodily change (ingesting more of the Videodrome signal willingly), he is rendered ‘across the border of prohibition into sadistic pleasure’ himself. Through the use of his new vagina, signalling ‘a transformation from activity to passivity, from control (or the illusion of control) to helplessness and confusion, from male to female’ (Beard, 2001, p. 141) his role is now perverted. After enduring sadistic (but, for the controlling enactors, surprisingly playful) torture and submission, a litany of degrading and violent tasks, he is led to the final result - suicide.
Of course, he enacts this suicide under the promise of a new corporeal form of his own - a rebuilding of his old flesh and bone into what Nicki calls the “New Flesh” - a concept that Cronenberg repeatedly returns to within his filmmaking. But he is misled, lied to in the same way the viewer is. The cinematic language is as subjective as our protagonist, both becoming ‘delirious, boundaryless, fantastically beset’ (Beard, p. 123) - our surrogate and our audience receive the same information, the same mistruths, the same false images and narratives, and are therefore implicated in equal measure. These hallucinatory, non-real asides are common to Cronenberg’s cinema, often preferring to integrate fictional creatures and imaginary excursions, and, here, by directly linking Renn to the audience, and highlighting their shared manipulation by external, uncaring forces, the watching spectator is asked to consider their own place in the real world of media consumption - perhaps they are being programmed in the same way, by their own uninterested corporations.
The reasoning for these intense, fantastical hallucinations, and their obvious allure is clear - real life is growing boring. The imagination that generates these wild ideas, placing them into art, is suggested to be ‘the dangerous activity’ (p. 307), but the subsequent consumption has much the same effect. Just as how regular (or even socially-abnormal) sex is no longer enticing for the wealthy and disinterested elite of Crash, requiring an entirely non-sexual, but wholly abject, visceral act to re-awaken their sexual feeling, our culture is one of social numbness - a symptom of many illnesses, but one that Videodrome suggests the video nasty as the “car-crash” solution to - albeit an inevitably self-destructive solution. Much like how Renn is searching for content hard enough to “break through” his own shell of numbness, our “soft… too soft”, easily-accessible, and socially-acceptable content is not enough of an escape from the horrors and boredom of every-day life. The Video Nasty, with its transgressive ability to “break through”, calls to spectators like an explicit abjection, its disgust alluring with equal desire, its violence awakening a numb brain - the images ‘transmuted from passive to active’ just as their viewers are themselves turned from ‘active watchers to passive victims’, the mind infected with unreal hallucinations on fictional television screens and real life, until ‘video and actuality become impossible to tell apart’ (Beard, p. 158). It sounds dangerous.
But still, it calls to you. You are reading this, are you not? Do you not want to watch the film? Why not slide the video tape into the VCR, and give it a play. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?
Bibliography
“Freud, S. The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Trans. James Strachey. 24 vols. London: Hogarth, 1953-74” cited in: Felluga, D. "Modules on Freud: On the Unconscious." Introductory Guide to Critical Theory. [13 January 2011]. Purdue U. [17 May 2024]. <http://www.purdue.edu/guidetotheory/psychoanalysis/freud2.html>.
Kristeva, J. (1984). Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. Columbia: Columbia University Press.
Creed, B. (1993) The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. Oxfordshire: Routledge.
Beard, W. (2001) The Artist as Monster: The Cinema of David Cronenberg (Heritage). Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
McKenna, M. (2020) Nasty Business: The Marketing and Distribution of the Video Nasties. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
Petley, J. (2011) Film and Video Censorship in Modern Britain. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
Obscene Publications Act 1959, c. 66. Available at: https://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1959/66/pdfs/ukpga_19590066_en.pdf (Accessed: 19 May 2024).
Benson-Allott, C. (2013) Killer Tapes and Shattered Screens: Video Spectatorship From VHS to File Sharing. California: University of California Press.
Filmography
Videodrome, 1982. [Film]. Directed by David Cronenberg. Canada: Universal Pictures.
The Fly, 1986. [Film]. Directed by David Cronenberg. Canada: 20th Century Fox.
Naked Lunch, 1992. [Film]. Directed by David Cronenberg. Canada: 20th Century Fox.
Crash, 1996. [Film]. Directed by David Cronenberg. Canada: Alliance Communications.
eXistenZ, 1999. [Film]. Directed by David Cronenberg. Canada: Alliance Atlantis.
Scanners, 1981. [Film]. Directed by David Cronenberg. Canada: New World-Mutual.
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