In exploring the depths of grief and its intricate relationship with technology, few films have been as prescient as the new David Cronenberg movie, The Shrouds. The film, a profound love letter to bereavement that follows a beautiful couple beyond the veil of death, is a sci-fi movie with the beating heart of a nurtured personal experience. In the starring role of Karsh, inventor of ‘The Shrouds’, an app that turns friends and family into a virtual nurturing support system on demand, tech magnate Vincent Cassel expresses the intricacies of mourning with an ethereal and touching delicacy. In this review, readers are invited to explore a reality that mixes human emotion and machine advancement in a tale of sorrow, love and the afterlife.
At heart, however, it is not a story about death, but about the continued presence of those who have died among the living. Specifically, Cassel, as Cronenberg himself appears to stand in, is a man gripped by grief after his wife, Becca, has died. His quest to revolutionise the practice of embalming through the use of hi-tech shrouds becomes, then, a vivid allegory for the desire to keep our loved ones with us.
Witnessing the decay of a loved one from a distance – or, for that matter, at close range, on a screen or in the arc of a coffin – offends against certain conventions about death and what we do in its wake. The idea of allowing mourners the privilege of watching their loved ones’ bodies break down via visual sensors, or giving them the pseudo-tactility of a real handprint, might be, especially for some, a step too far. It might sound awful. Even so, it could in some sense be cheaper, and possibly (to some) comforting, too. Where do we draw the line between love, and where the ethics of memory?
Karsh’s story is thus a story of trying to heal himself by creating something technical, a theme that is perhaps even more powerfully addressed in our own moment of digital omnipresence. How better to manage the trauma of life’s ineluctable defeats than by jumping into the gleaming digital pit, building something remarkable from the trappings of our technological psychedelic ‘drug culture’? The Shrouds does this sagely – it situates technology not as something hostile, alienating and cold, but as something that might be at the heart of redemption, assurance, remembrance.
Although he had not suffered such a horrible loss in his own life, Cronenberg has said that he drew from his own real-life loss, the deaths of his wife and sister, to imbue ‘The Shrouds’ with a sense of ‘personal tragedy’. The film is indeed a story of grief and loss, of course, and a broken family that refuses to come together. But it is also a deeply affecting expression of the love that endures beyond death.
Cronenberg’s particular sense of aesthetics gives ‘The Shrouds’ the appearance of a horror movie but with morbid beauty that overwhelms in a strangely placid fashion, with its long landscapes of high-tech cemeteries and the intimate, dreamlike sequences featuring Becca. The film never shies away from making you feel uncomfortably mortal.
The dream sequences in ‘The Shrouds’ are key. They open up Karsh’s psyche and add layers of surrealism to his mourning process. For the audience, they allow insights into the characters’ feelings of despair, a revelation of the depths of Karsh’s love for Becca.
What starts off as a meditation on the premise of ‘The Shrouds’ gradually blossoms into something far more complex, a philosophical disquisition on the essence of the soul, the price of loss, and how we grapple with the inevitabilities of our shared human condition.
When death is largely not seen and sanitised in a society, ‘The Shrouds’ reveals what happens to a cadaver when the power goes out. It also reminds us, through the possibility of hope at the other end, that, by embracing this innovation, and making a conscious choice to connect, we might find a way to mourn.
The Shrouds isn’t merely a film; it’s an encounter that demands a response. In questioning the choreography of life and death, as well as the labour required of those entrusted with their technological mediation, Cronenberg invites us to explore our own susceptibility to injury, our own attachment to the things we love, and our own inclination towards grief and memory. Using the language of mourning, Cronenberg locates the place where fact and feeling part ways in a portrait of profound conjugality.
Ultimately, then, The Shrouds is a testament to the human spirit’s ability to confront the unfathomable — confront, possibly even embrace, those things that are ‘neither man nor beast, living nor dead’. It asks us to consider our relationship to life and death, and to drink in their meaning in the most unexpected places.
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