Bodies melting into each other. A psychic battle on the astral plane. Questions of identity and transmutation and transformation. Outbursts of strong, bloody violence. And even the odd spot of kinky rumpy-pumpy. Yep, Possessor is a Cronenberg movie, alright. But the Cronenberg playing with the family jewels this time is Brandon, son of David, proving here, even more than with his debut Antiviral, that he’s a chip off the old block.
Of course, it’s also entirely possible that the chip has been invaded by the old block. Because Possessor turns on a concept so high, it’s scraping the clouds: what if an assassin could possess someone’s body, shunting the host consciousness into the background, in order to carry out a hit? It’s an ingenious idea, albeit one with echoes of films like The Hidden, that explains how suddenly law-abiding citizens can find themselves guilty of heinous crimes. In a startling opening sequence, we see its grim potential made bloody flesh.
It’s the kind of notion that Christopher Nolan could turn into a $200 million blockbuster in his sleep, but Cronenberg doesn’t have that kind of cash. Instead, he has a keen eye for an unsettling image (helped by excellent cinematographer Karim Hussain), and a keener interest in the psychological ramifications of such a violent, possessive act.
A strong stomach is required. If you don’t have one, just use someone else’s.
When we meet Possessor’s nominal protagonist, Tasya Vos, she’s been invading people’s heads for so long that it’s worn away her own. Estranged from her husband and son, and from virtually anything resembling a genuine emotion, it’s another one of those precisely calibrated studies in detachment in which Andrea Riseborough seems to specialise. Persuaded by her boss (Jennifer Jason Leigh) to go back in for a potentially lucrative gig, Vos quickly finds herself in over her head, mainly by being out of it completely.
Which brings us to the film’s true central figure, Christopher Abbott’s Colin Tate, a patsy chosen to take the fall for the (planned) murder of Sean Bean’s rich industrialist, to whose daughter, Ava (Tuppence Middleton), Tate is engaged. As the bodies pile up, it allows Abbott to impress, going from dead-eyed automaton to sweat-drenched freakouts in next to no time. And, in scenes where Vos and Tate clash, or in which Vos finds herself making love to Ava, it gives Cronenberg plenty of scope to explore issues of identity, reality and control in a way that might just bring a grin to his old man’s face.
It’s all very compelling, well-acted and presented, although there’s a chilliness and a clinical edge that is very Cronenberg-ian, but might keep audiences at arm’s length. Ditto the violence. Stabbings, shootings, pokerings (use your imagination) — it’s all here, bar exploding heads. A strong stomach is required. If you don’t have one, just use someone else’s.
