A Horrifying, Venomous Upper-Crust Tourism Satire, Infinity Pool Is a Gooey, Garish Nightmare
Heartbeats and cumshots are the alpha and omega of Brandon Cronenberg’s vacation in White Lotus hell, where the tourists loosen their collars and let loose their lizard brains. The limbic system and the most basic biological processes of life dominate Infinity Pool, the filmmaker’s descent into a slimy, sexy, terrifying world where death is just another game for rich people. It’s a hit-and-run satire of Western nonsense, dismantling the havoc our destination-hopping upper-crust wreaks on other cultures and the faux-mystical enlightenment hawked by gurus and Goop fools—those too wealthy to have real problems, those aspiring to achieve this status, and those taking lucrative advantage of both. In this tropical trial, they spill into each other, forever and ever. Ego death has nothing on Brandon Cronenberg’s brilliantly warped resort.
Going on retreats where you take lots of drugs, screw your brains out and feel spiritually superior to everyone you know is quintessential high society behavior. It’s back in vogue for the sexually liberated and financially set-for-life. Of course Cronenberg would imagine the most punishing version, blasting these jerks and those striving to join them to the netherrealm. He’s not saying that it’s easy to deny the siren song—there’s rampant, sinister pleasure calling from the depths of Infinity Pool. Freedom from the real world. Freedom from the self-imposed pressures to succeed and produce. Freedom from consequences. But there’s no free lunch in this snake-infested ayahuasca Eden, even if you’re just snacking on apples.
The dangled, juicy lure isn’t subtle: A seemingly normal couple being approached by weird (probably swinging) Europeans always leads to trouble. We’d be fools not to be suspicious of Gabby (Mia Goth) and Al (Jalil Lespert) when they come up to their estranged hotel-mate couple James (Alexander Skarsgård) and Em (Cleopatra Coleman). One of them is played by Mia Goth, which is a sure sign to hightail it back to your room and flip the “do not disturb” sign. But James is a novelist, with one bad book to his name (The Variable Sheath, a fantastic fake title) that only got published because he married the rich publisher’s daughter. Gabby’s proclaimed fandom strokes the part of his ego that’s all but shriveled up and crumbled to dust—he’s weak, he’s hungry for it, he’s the perfect mark.
The younger Cronenberg puts his baggage up front: Feelings of creative inadequacy due to family ties, doubts about belonging to the high-profile circles his last two (quite good) films have likely set him in. These themes make the absurd actions of the narrative emotionally honest, and add weight to the nuttier nuances of Infinity Pool’s sarcastic bad trip.
When the white folks inevitably do something irreversibly horrible to the locals of Li Tolqa, their unprepared alienation in their culture is disturbingly hilarious. They don’t speak the language, and can’t read the forms the cops ask them to sign. But it’s stranger than that. Brilliant production design, location scouting and cinematography lock you into a late-night freakout.