As one gets older, they begin to realise that grief is a subject that is simply unavoidable when it comes to art. It has always been present, and very few artists hide their intentions when crafting works in response to some enormous loss. We’ve extensively discussed the various forms that it takes when it comes to exploring the subject on screen, yet there always seems to be something missing when it comes to fully encapsulating the experience of suffering such a monumental loss. The reality is that there isn’t any clear set of guidelines on how to grieve, and the most effective works are not those that propose any specific approach, but rather are deeply personal stories by filmmakers who are working through their own experiences with death. One of the most striking in recent years is also one that has quite an unexpected source, coming in the form of The Shrouds (French: Les Linceuls), the most recent film written and directed by the iconoclastic David Cronenberg, who is not someone we would initially expect to be the voice beyond one of the most powerful and poignant examinations of grief we’ve seen in years. Made in response to the death of his wife in 2017, the film follows an innovator named Karsh (clearly based on the director himself) who has spent staggering amounts of money and time developing “the shroud”, a groundbreaking technology in which clients are given access to live streams of their deceased loved ones, having the opportunity to watch their bodies disintegrate and become one with the soil, which Karsh believes is patiently waiting to welcome them back to the natural world. It’s a peculiar concept, but once we understand why Cronenberg chose to tell this story (as well as noticing some of his trademark stylistic and philosophical curiosities peering through the cracks), everything falls into place, and we can see just how valuable a work of art this actually is, even when it can occasionally veer towards the frustratingly opaque in a few scattered moments, which is nothing if not par for the course with Cronenberg, who proves to be as fascinating an artistic voice as ever with this peculiar and enticing attempt to make sense of one of life’s most intimidating mysteries.

While the subject of mourning the loss of a loved one is very common in film, it is always clear when a film is made by someone who has truly lost their closest personal companion, or when it was simply done by a filmmaker hoping to capture the closest approximation to such a staggering loss. In the case of The Shrouds, there is very little doubt that Cronenberg was exploring the most complex and challenging emotions, extracting them from the depths of his soul in the hopes of trying to process his grief. The veil of death is something we all strive to understand, even if we don’t tend to always admit it for the most part, and you don’t need to have experienced the loss of your spouse of nearly half a century to understand the nuances in the director’s argument throughout this film. Naturally, we find that Cronenberg’s attempt to process the complex emotions brought on by his own grief are nothing if not entirely unorthodox, with most of The Shrouds being built around his fascination with the human body, particularly in how it can be the source of both divinity and sheer terror, which informs so much of this film that it becomes as much about the physical remains as it is the more metaphorical or abstract parts of life. In this, we find a fascinating detail, which is that Cronenberg is oddly not all that invested in looking at death as a transition between stages of existence (the protagonist, who we’ve already noticed is clearly inspired by the director, refers to himself as a “non-practicing atheist” from the very beginning of the film), but rather something far more recognisable, with the story dwelling more on the corporeality than it is the mystical, which the director dismisses almost immediately. It’s not a case of Cronenberg seeking out ways to diminish religious belief or the idea that the soul is non-existent, but rather openly admitting that we cannot ever know what lies on the other side, so rather than hoping that our chosen belief is the correct one, true mourning comes from embracing the reality and understand the fragility of life, while also admitting that someone doesn’t merely cease to exist, but changes form, both in terms of their physical remains and the memories that those who they leave behind carry with them. It’s odd and esoteric, and I would assume it resonates far more profoundly with those who have experienced the kind of hopeless pain around which this film builds itself.

When casting the role of Karsh, ostensibly based on the director himself, there were clearly many options that Cronenberg could have chosen, especially since this is such a wonderfully challenging role that just about any actor with some talent could have done exceptionally well with the material. However, his choice to go with Vincent Cassel is both surprising and genuinely fitting – not only have they collaborated in the past (with Cassel playing supporting parts on Eastern Promises and A Dangerous Method), but they share a very similar approach to their craft, which is based heavily around the use of the human body as a device to communicate complex, bold ideas. Cassel proves to be a perfect lead for this film, since he has a very distinct charisma, one that is magnetic but slightly offbeat, enough to draw the viewer in close, but also keep us at a slight distance, which is an important quality in the development of the character, who is supposed to inspire some empathy, but not quite to the point where we are entirely enamoured with him or his choices. Considering the subject matter, it was very important to find the right balance, since tipping the scale too heavily in either direction would have resulted in either a re-emergence of the mad scientist trope at one extreme, or portray Karsh as some overly melodramatic blunderer on the other. Cassel brings both an otherworldly charm and a deep sincerity to a part that desperately needed someone of his calibre, since he was the vessel through which Cronenberg filtered his own perspective, using the character as a stand-in for himself, or at least defining him as someone who handles the death of his wife in a more innovative, daring way. We all wish that we could resurrect our deceased loved ones, and while Cronenberg realises this is obviously impossible, the creation of a character who has found a way to stay close to his wife, even in death, is certainly the impetus for the film’s most intriguing and compelling elements, all of which are woven through Cassel’s mesmerising, captivating performance that anchors this peculiar and provocative film.

He has had a relatively versatile body of work (at least in terms of style and genre), but Cronenberg is someone who maintains quite close bonds with his personal interests as far as constructing a story goes, which we find is very much the case with The Shrouds, a film that blends complex ideas with some of his more idiosyncratic directorial decisions. This is a very simple film on the surface, since there aren’t as many visual effects as we’ve seen in some recent works – he never depends on them (at least not in most of his work in the past couple of decades), but considering this is marketed as a body horror, it’s surprisingly quite subtle and nuanced in terms of its execution, being more of a chamber drama, which is a fascinating decision and slots this film in between the many different genres with which he has flirted over the years. The style is simple, with most of the story taking place in apartments, restaurants or offices, which the director redefines as the stage for some of the most provocative and challenging philosophical commentary that he has explored in quite some time. It’s quite unfurnished in terms of its visual aesthetic, but it contains some unforgettable shots – the cinematography by NAME is clean and polished (which matches the minimalist aesthetic of the production design) and gives the film a cold, distant feeling that contributes to a more aloof atmosphere that Cronenberg is very keen to exploit. The Shroud is driven primarily by its atmosphere – it asks certain questions, which pushes the film towards making a coherent point, but it actually doesn’t seek out the answers, since it is clear that this is a case of the journey being more important than the destination, since there’s always something valuable in provoking the audience to look at a subject through a very distinct, unconventional lens. The abrasive and clinical tone stands in stark contrast to the tenderness at the core of the film, which allows The Shrouds to be a far more enthralling affair, exactly what we would expect from the director exploring some of life’s most challenging and harrowing inevitabilities.

An older, more grizzled version of Cronenberg making a film about death and mourning sounds challenging, and in many ways, it is a film that doesn’t give the audience much leeway in terms of navigating its many complex ideas. It seems almost miraculous that the director chose to return to filmmaking after what appeared to be a long-term retirement, having spent a fallow period of nearly a decade away from the medium. Much like Crimes of the Future, we find that The Shrouds is the very definition of late-period filmmaking, where a director is no longer focused on proving themselves, nor do they pay any attention to whether audiences or critics are embracing or reviling their work, and instead focus on cobbling together the passion projects that have likely lingered in their minds for decades, or which emerge as a result of age and experience weathering away their youthful ambition, and replacing it instead with a more cynical, but also oddly hopeful, perspective on the industry. This is an undeniably challenging work, and it is reasonable that as many people are enamoured with it as they are repulsed, which is essential Cronenberg’s entire career condensed into a single sentence. It’s a beautifully odd film, the brainchild of a director who has never felt compelled to follow conventions, and who has gleefully marched to the beat of his own drum, even if it meant dividing audiences. This is a case of a film that is never going to appeal to everyone, and its cold tone, bewildering narrative and tendency to lean into the discomfort more than it resolves the frequent awkwardness will likely turn some viewers away from this film – The Shrouds is not for them, since it was never going to have the mainstream success of some of his more universally praised works. This is an artist dealing with the subject of death – not only mourning the loss of his partner, but also coming to terms with his mortality – and while this is a common subject, it means something more when dealing with a director evidently in the last chapter of his career. Beautifully unconventional and deeply unnerving, The Shrouds is everything we’d expect from Cronenberg when it comes to the topic of grief, and fits in perfectly with his extraordinary body of work, which has always sought to provoke and unsettle wherever possible.