Jonny Numb

(WARNING: this review contains SPOILERS. Infinity Pool is currently available to rent or purchase digitally, with a Blu-ray release to follow on April 11.)

Something I’m working through with my therapist is my inability to own up to my “talent.” I’ve written movie reviews since I was 12, and have contributed to a handful of websites through the years. But I find myself cringing at the “film critic” tag. Something about it makes me feel like a fraud…and besides, I don’t have the “household name” thing – or standalone income – that would qualify me for such a distinction.

So I found myself relating to the undercurrent of Impostor Syndrome that runs through Brandon Cronenberg’s Infinity Pool. It often feels like the filmmaker – son of the legendary David – is actively trying to work out his own sense of auteur authenticity here.

Indeed, how does one step out from the blood-relation shadow of a creator who modified the landscape of sci-fi horror in such a radically innovative way? For that matter, how do “critics” distinguish themselves from the print-publication legends who put their own unique imprint on filmic analysis?

Basically, at what point do you convince yourself that what you have to offer – regardless of the creative discipline – is indeed worthy? Worthy of your own eyes; worthy of your mind’s perception of “success”; worthy to be seen and perceived by others?

I kind of envy the folks who throw around their titles with abandon; without a hint of self-consciousness. Just head over to Twitter, where you can’t go five seconds without seeing someone who has a laundry list of bylines in their bio.

Meanwhile, I’m always surprised whenever someone asks me for a promo quote. (Pleasantly surprised, but surprised all the same.)

In Infinity Pool, the creator surrogate is James (Alexander Skarsgard), a onetime novelist in a sophomore slump. Wife Em’s (Cleopatra Coleman) father owns the publishing house that put out James’ debut. While on vacation in a foreign country, the couple connects with fellow tourists Gabi (Mia Goth) and Alban (Jalil Espert).

By dividing the country into two distinct parts – an incredible resort paradise on one side; a run-down, rusted-out industrial hellhole on the other – Cronenberg posits a treatise on “The Ugly American” that successfully hits the satirical notes that eluded the overhyped, controversy-courting likes of Hostel and The Hunt.

The tourists’ xenophobia is presented as a distinctly English-speaking affliction. When James and Em are apprehended for a hit-and-run accident, they are given two options: either be executed or, for a fee, have themselves cloned, and put the clone to death.

In more ways than one, Infinity Pool resembles that Calvin & Hobbes story arc where the former creates duplicates of himself to get out of doing a homework assignment (the punchline? His duplicates don’t want to do the assignment, either). Through all the darkness and horrific violence on display, this sense of cheekiness isn’t lost on Cronenberg, who frequently acknowledges the absurdity of the premise.

I like how the run-down section of the country resembles the Eastern-Bloc settings of many an Albert Pyun film (note the paint peeling off the walls in the police station). That said, the chief of police (Thomas Kretschmann) isn’t a monstrous boogeyman, but a soft-spoken and empathetic civil servant. Ditto the irony that the place is technologically advanced enough – or imbued with a very literal kind of “magic” – to be able to offer such a sophisticated alternative to capital punishment.

Then there’s the comical image of a beat-up ATM spitting out an ungodly amount of bills so a terrified James can deflect his punishment on to a clone. (Which begs another absurd question – what happens if the ATM runs out of money?)

Cronenberg paints a forthright portrait of American entitlement where the sun shines ever brighter on those who can buy their way out of hard times. Once James is ingratiated into a group of thrill-seeking tourists who’ve undergone the same punishment/procedure, the film becomes a series of escalating extremes (played out as ghoulish pranks): the tourists steal tribal masks, partake of the local natural drugs (resulting in one of the great hallucinatory orgies of the 2020s so far), and generally co-opt the culture – and its inhabitants – for their own depraved ends.

A line of dialog that lends the film its name is very telling: Alban’s first visit to the country was for a construction project that resulted in the death of 2 local workers. Mere collateral damage in the minds of the bourgeoisie.

That Infinity Pool begins with a foreigner’s naivete and evolves into landscape of jaded excess hammers home the unsubtle point that the tourists are indeed the real savages. Perhaps most horrifying is the ending, which promises this cycle of systemic abuse will continue to go unchecked and result in more nihilistic bloodshed.

This speaks to the New American Normal of atrocity being out in the open for all to see. Whether you’re a white-collar criminal who’s fleeced naïve citizens, or a screw-loose shooter who opens fire in a public place, it’s almost guaranteed that any court trial will be a media circus resulting in few – if any – longstanding consequences. It’s all spectacle, exploited for ratings.

Such is the case with the bloodthirsty, laissez-faire tourists of Infinity Pool. It begs the question as to why Em is horrified at the sight of James’ clone being murdered, when she falls squarely within the same “wealth = privilege” equation as the other tourists. Perhaps this speaks to a genuine love and empathy on her behalf? Whereas James is neurotic and full of self-doubt, Em, despite her inherent monetary value, is confident in her knowledge of self.

And, I must admit: I appreciate the casting of alpha-male Skarsgard – so buff and brutal in The Northman – as an externally cool-looking fellow who’s ultimately just a validation-seeking coward deep down.

At the center of this is James, who is initially depicted as a soft-spoken artist, emasculated somewhat by the unspoken truth that his novel never would’ve been published without his marriage to Em. When he goes through the cloning process and bears witness to his “self” being disemboweled by his victim’s young son, he’s horrified…but can’t take his eyes off the spectacle.

It’s within this act of bearing witness to a dehumanized sort of horror that aligns Infinity Pool with Papa Cronenberg’s Videodrome. Not unlike Max Renn, James goes from initial shock to casual indulgence to full-blown, thrill-seeking addiction. Removed from the restrictions of American law, the world becomes a playground of hedonism and brutality. Similarly, James – who becomes more egotistical and defiant as the film progresses – is so taken by the acceptance of the tourist group that he doesn’t realize he’s just playing “bitch” to their nasty, illegal whims. Unlike Renn, he never seizes control of the situation, remaining a herd-follower throughout.

Shoot…there’s even a moment where the tourists, decked out in the tribal masks, serenade James from the entrance of the hotel, as if reenacting the “Gooble Gobble” sequence from Tod Browning’s Freaks.

There’s no “long live the new flesh” here – just a man’s sense of self getting sucked into a black hole of conformity and violence.

4 out of 5 stars