Hooptober... And Then There Were Nine

57th Kill

There is a sizable cohort of people - often very intelligent people - who believe themselves to be living in a simulation. All sorts of logical and philosophical arguments have been painstakingly constructed in support of this theory, but I can't help but think these folks have just been spending far too much time fantasising themselves as a messianic Keanu Reeves in black leather. The best argument I can think of for reality being a simulation is that someone "up there" really seems to have a twisted sense of humour - hey, it makes more sense than an omnipotent benevolent God, but that's just my view.

Reality is not a simulation, guys. Or.... is it....?

No it's not. You know how I know? Because super-hot 90's Jennifer Jason Leigh isn't trying to convince me to get a new anus installed in my spine so she can shove an umbilicus into it with the promise of a shared erotic adventure with her. My life simply isn't that much fun.

I think it's the headiness of the oneiric vibe that I'd rate as the finest quality of eXistenZ. To me, it blurs the line between its ostensible concept of virtual reality and the virtual reality every single one of us lives each day of the week: the realm of the theta state - dream-level unconsciousness. I'm fascinated by art that explores this domain - surely every bit as mysterious to our knowledge base as galactic space or the ocean deeps. And we know these reaches contain both the blissful and the monstrous, not to mention everything in between.

Last night I had a dream that I couldn't sleep. I woke up in my darkened room to find the CEO of one of my client organisations and the President of one of my suppliers standing there in the dark and politely asking me what my wifi password is. And, this being the Theta World, I didn't question why they were there, I just apologised that I was still in my PJ's - playing it off as a slight consequence of how damn busy I was - and spent what felt like hours hosting a business meeting in my living room, desperately trying to get everyone to keep their voices down so as not to wake my family. When I finally got them out of the house, a succession of Amazon delivery guys turned up and loaded me up with packages, and it was then that I noticed my wife wandering around in the dark. But when I spoke to her, all I heard was some male voice saying "uh.... uh.... uh...." gently and repetitively. And just as I clocked that that may not be my wife moving around in the dark, a pair of thick hairy arms pinned me from behind. At which point, I metaphorically yanked that umbilicus out of my back socket and woke the fuck up, because that is one VR adventure I could have done without.

But therein lies the nightmare of eXistenZ. Our protagonists can't necessarily leave - even when they try. They have an ill-defined and tantalisingly unreachable goal - even though they have it, then they lose it, then they have it, then they lose it. Why doesn't Allegra back up her game so it's not vulnerably housed only in one quivering, nipple-encrusted game controller? Because this is a dream, and such sense isn't countenanced.

She's not even a person - Allegra is an allegory, like all people we meet in our dreams. So is Jude Law our protagonist, Ted Pikul = typical, a vertiable everyman?

You can go deep with this one - layer upon layer, worlds within worlds. Everyone speaks in a bad accent, savage gory violence can be explained away with a shrug, weapons can be forged out of leftovers. Welcome to David Cronenberg's daydream - the equivalent of anyone else's night terror.

Best Kill (may contain traces of spoiler)

It's all fun and games until Jennifer Jason Leigh goes nuclear on your ass. By which I mean your new ass in your lower spine. What a way to go.