Crimes of the Future(2022): Cronenberg Returns with a Visceral Vision of Human Evolution

"A chilling, visually audacious provocation that lingers long after the credits roll—just maybe not in the way you’d want it to." — 4/5 Stars

For devotees of cerebral body horror and those unafraid to stare into the abyss of biological obsolescence, Crimes of the Future is a singular, unforgettable experience—grotesque, brilliant, and defiantly Cronenbergian.

Let’s be clear: if the words “written and directed by David Cronenberg” don’t make your stomach flutter with a mix of dread and anticipation, you haven’t been paying attention. With Crimes of the Future (2022)—a film that shares only its title with Cronenberg’s obscure 1970 debut of the same name (the two are completely unrelated)—the legendary auteur returns to his roots with a slow-burning, surgically precise meditation on art, mutation, and what remains of humanity in a synthetic world.

The film opens with a jarring, emotionally raw scene: a child eating a plastic bathroom trash bin. From there, it only gets stranger, and well just watch it . In this near-future reality, the human body is evolving beyond pain, beyond disease—and beyond function. Organs grow without purpose. Digestion becomes obsolete. And into this unsettling landscape steps Saul Tenser (Viggo Mortensen), a gaunt, ailing performance artist who, alongside his partner Caprice (Léa Seydoux), stages public surgical performances where his newly formed, useless organs are extracted before a rapt audience.

Enter Timlin (Kristen Stewart), a twitchy bureaucrat from the National Organ Registry, whose obsession with Saul’s work leads her—and us—into a clandestine movement that sees his celebrity not as spectacle, but as a beacon for the next phase of human evolution. What unfolds is less a conventional plot and more a series of haunting tableaux exploring the intersection of art, science, and bodily decay.

Body Horror as Philosophy

Crimes of the Future is undeniably body horror—but it’s also an allegory wrapped in sinew and steel. Is it about climate collapse and microplastics infiltrating our biology? The commodification of pain in the age of influencer culture? The sacrificial nature of artistic creation? Cronenberg offers no tidy interpretations, only rich, disturbing imagery that invites a dozen readings. This is a film that trusts its audience to sit with discomfort, ambiguity, and yes—quite a bit of surgical mutilation.

Conceptually and visually, it’s stunning. The production design—featuring organic furniture, biomechanical operating tables, and eerily sterile performance spaces—creates a world that feels both alien and unnervingly plausible. Every frame is meticulously composed, every incision deliberate.

Performances That Serve the Vision

The cast leans into the film’s clinical strangeness with commitment, if not always vocal finesse. Mortensen is magnetic in his physical deterioration, embodying a man whose body has become both prison and canvas. Seydoux brings sensuality and precision to Caprice, while Stewart—though occasionally awkward in delivery—effectively channels Timlin’s jittery, almost erotic fascination with transformation. None are delivering career-best work, but they serve Cronenberg’s vision with admirable restraint.

"If body horror is your thing, you’ll love it. If not… well, maybe skip this one."

Make no mistake: this is not a crowd-pleaser. With a global box office of just $5 million, it’s clear Crimes of the Future casts a narrow net. I imagine many viewers may walked out—or wish they had. But for those attuned to Cronenberg’s wavelength, it’s a singular, unforgettable experience. You will not forget it. Whether you’ll want to is another question entirely.

In the end, Crimes of the Future is less a story than an atmosphere—an invitation to contemplate our own biological fragility in an age of synthetic saturation. It’s gross, brilliant, and defiantly Cronenbergian. And for that, it earns its place among the director’s most provocative works.

Comrade Courant Culture Critic