Cronenberg's Martyr Theory.

Artists in the late stages of their creative states will ponder what brought them so far, often between the rock and hard chitin of regretting they never followed through or regretting they suffered to make their art happen, but David is poking and slicing at what seems to be the intense morphing of his cultural presence. Insanity takes work and gore demands sweat, tears, and the blood that attracts audiences. It doesn't feel final, but it doesn't feel like a stepping stone; 'Dead Ringers' is brought from the ashes, and its thin line between romantics and sinews evokes 'Crash'. Could this be his violent self-referentia, vivisecting his hubris to mourn each brain cell he lost to trigger Hollywood's collective phobias, or is it just the gnarly lunch-kill that we missed all these years? Either way, it's bleak and throbs with the fear that this torture is what the people want. This is sci-voyeurism, and we're all in the front seat. Somebody *please* find the movie that Kristen Stewart thought she was working on.