Review of Naked Lunch (1991) by Matthew R — 26 Sep 2011

David Cronenberg's film adaptation of William S. Burroughs' novel Naked Lunch is so unwatchable, so shocking, so unnerving I consider it not only a film worthy of all of its hype, but also the polar opposite or antagonist of the book and Terry Gilliam film adaptation of Hunter S.

Thompson's work, Fear and Loathing in Lost Vegas. Where Thompson's and Gilliam's works are more mental trips of great cultural investigation portrayed through massive drug binges and psychedelic adventures accompanied by the music and fashion of the hippie movement, Naked Lunch is deep, depressing, cynical, and beyond out of control, in the worst possible way.

As opposed to Fear and Loathing, where I could see a lot of fun and personal reflection and discovery amidst the chaos, Naked Lunch is basically the worst high ever experienced, void of catharsis or a clear social or cultural ultimatum.

From talking typewriters in the shape of giant homicidal beetles to killing his wife by shooting her in the face, it sets the sights on the utter depravity of the quest for peace of mind and in the process of completely and abysmally failing at this, it also, in a strange way, shows what is advertently wrong with much of the world.

This also paints a very vivid and disgusted picture of the death of the American Dream, which preempted Thompson's Fear and Loathing (which more clearly stated this conclusion) by 13 years. Though the film is more of an investigation into Burrows' actual life than following the book, it still represents the air of the novel and the constant indiscernible switch between reality and horror keeps you on edge.

No, it is not at all an easy film to sit through and no, not everything makes sense, sometimes not in the slightest. It also represents the great tumultuous inner conflict of the world of a massively dehumanized and well-spoken drug addict.

William S. Burrows was injecting everything from heroin to morphine and even melting down and injecting insecticide. This tale starts in reality, but soon after the stasis is left behind, there is never again a clear definable line on where the real world starts and Burroughs' drug-induced world of the Interzone begins.

A definite recommendation, but only if you have a strong stomach to see William's twisted mental fragments and horrifying life while writing the novel and David Cronenberg's lust for things cinematically savage and unsparing.