SUNDANCE 2023 | Movie Review: "Infinity Pool"; Piss, Punishment, and Phreeky Parties
11/12 ForReel Score | 4.5/5 Stars
By design, infinity pools are fabricated illusions, man-made containments of water that appear uncontained, their pristine H2O able to flow out across vast expanses and allow swimmers unfettered access to never-ending fantasy. Long considered symbols of opulence, these pools speak to similar kinds of delusions held by the absurdly wealthy: the delusions that resources are unlimited, and access to the world unrestricted. It is in these illusions and delusions that Brandon Cronenberg conceives his Infinity Pool. But in true Cronenbergian fashion, this pool is far from a hyper-chlorinated oasis; rather, it is a fetid, acid-laced, and psychosexual stew, one that pulls characters and viewers alike down into the murky depths of amorality and churns them into husks of the humans they once were.
If these descriptors make the film sound daunting or unsettling, it’s because they should. Infinity Pool falls somewhat in line with recent upper class satires such as Triangle of Sadness and The White Lotus, but the dark elements of the satire are darker—much darker—and the condemnation less about affluence than it is about ego, insecurity, and the base animalistic impulses. Like in Cronenberg’s previous film, Possessor, Infinity Pool is rife with dispassionate, thoroughly detestable characters, and their arcs define themselves by a straying further and further from decency.
Alexander Skarsgård heads this charge as James Foster, a svelte but failing writer who leeches off his wife’s (Cleopatra Coleman) family fortune and publishing company. We first find the two at an all-inclusive resort in a fictional Adriatic country, but when James shifts his focus from writing and on to another alluring resort guest (Mia Goth), he is tempted to leave the resort and stir up trouble where harsh authorities are less understanding. Then, on a perilous night drive home, accursed James strikes and kills a local man. He is faced with execution as a result, but as his twisted fate would have it, his wife’s bankroll affords him another bizarre vacation amenity: the opportunity to have a clone of himself made to stand in at his state-sanctioned slaying.
Image courtesy of Sundance Institute
At the film’s Sundance panel, Skarsgård made a point of emphasizing that the precise absurdity of this premise was what drew him to the project. How might it affect someone on the guttural level if they witnessed their own demise? Would it fill them with a profound, Lovecraftian horror? Or would their shock contort itself into a dizzying ecstasy? In a world of sick excess, Cronenberg has his protagonist vacillating between both states.
The plot of Infinity Pool unfolds in a similarly seesawing manner, one moment erupting into orgies of blood and the next moment devolving into orgies of, erm, the flesh. This does lend the film a sort of aimless structuring, but because it depicts the nightmarish limbo of a hedonistic vacation, this structuring feels oddly and compellingly appropriate. Perhaps most unexpected in the mix is the demented humour that pronounces itself throughout. Much of this comes from Cronenberg’s writing of and Goth’s performance for Gabi, a character who comes to frightful fruition in her animalistic id. If you didn’t think Goth could build upon her scream queen status after the double whammy of X and Pearl, guess again.
Further enlivening Cronenberg’s daring visions are a handful of lurid, erratically edited, and psychedelica-tinged sequences that work to fracture character headspaces and bodies. Coming after the “mental sync” moments in Possessor, the hyper-stylized experiments are starting to feel like Cronenberg’s calling card. It should be stated, though, that Infinity Pool began gestating in the Canadian director’s mind long before Possessor—Cronenberg confirmed this in the aforementioned panel. This is maybe why Possessor feels more refined when compared to its follow up, and why some might prefer the sophomore feature to this newer effort.
But for all its audacity and its genre melting, this writer can’t help but feel a perverse affinity for Cronenberg’s infinity. So unrelentingly vile and so un-recommendable is this film that it seeps into you like some illicit substance, transforms you into some exquisitely awful beast. It is the feel-bad picture of the year in which horrible people sink to horrible depths in order to pursue their horrible highs. If that all sounds repugnant, then listen to yourself and steer clear. If you find it strangely provocative, then I urge you to wade deeper—the waters are divinely depraved.