In The Shrouds, David Cronenberg dares to ask the most unsettling question of the decade: “What if grieving meant WiFi access to your dead partner’s decomposing body?” Yes, really. The film follows Karsh, a wealthy tech entrepreneur who creates a grave-monitoring system called GraveTech, designed to let people watch their dearly departed… rot. But things take a turn — and not a gentle one — when questions arise: Is this mourning tool just a window into the afterlife… or a backdoor for government surveillance? Welcome to Cronenberg’s brain. Please leave your expectations (and sanity) at the door.
Vincent Cassel is front and center as Karsh, and let’s be honest, the man commits. Whether he’s obsessing over a high-tech tombstone or hallucinating his dead, naked wife in increasingly unhinged scenes, he sells it. Diane Kruger does double-duty as both the deceased wife and her eerily identical twin sister, bringing sensuality, sorrow, and a big ol’ dose of “wait, WHAT is happening here?” to every scene. And then there’s Guy Pearce — blink and you might miss him, but he’s rock solid in his brief screentime.
Visually, The Shrouds is classic Cronenberg — sterile and cold, yet haunting. The camera lingers, uncomfortably. The tech interfaces are slick but eerie, like someone accidentally crossbred Black Mirror with a funeral home brochure. The score is melancholic and futuristic, adding tension in all the right places. But don’t expect full-on body horror — this ain’t The Fly. In fact, the horror here is more existential than visceral. There’s no gore-soaked set piece; just a man losing his grip on grief, tech, and reality.
Now let’s talk story. Because hoo boy, it’s a ride. What begins as a grim meditation on mourning and the intrusive role of tech in our lives quickly spirals into an erotic thriller, political conspiracy, psychological drama, and midlife crisis simulator. Karsh’s grieving process includes glitchy memories of his dead wife’s illness (and nakedness), and for reasons that only make sense in Cronenbergland, he starts sleeping with her twin sister. Apparently, mourning works better when you reuse the body.
Then there’s the whole “your ex hacked the tech and crashed the company” subplot — because of course. And maybe it’s all a metaphor for capitalism and the surveillance state? Or maybe it’s just a bunch of half-baked ideas in a trench coat pretending to be a film.
By the final act, Cronenberg isn’t just walking the tightrope between genres — he’s fallen off, doing interpretive dance in the confusion below. It’s labelled “body horror,” but it barely qualifies. Instead, it’s more of a philosophical fever dream that occasionally remembers it has a plot.
The Shrouds almost says something profound about grief, love, and technology. But like a corrupted livestream, the signal gets lost. There’s a fascinating film in here somewhere — possibly several — but they’re all fighting for attention like ghosts at a séance.
If you’re a Cronenberg loyalist, you might enjoy the weird ride. If not, you’ll likely leave dazed, mildly uncomfortable, and asking yourself, “Did I just watch a man have sex with his dead wife’s twin in between rants about data breaches?” Yes. Yes, you did.
It’s moody, messy, and magnificently Cronenberg — but I can’t recommend it. I left the screening like Karsh left his company: confused, broken, and in desperate need of a therapist.
