The Shrouds may be one of David Cronenberg’s most personal films to date, but it ultimately falters in its execution, particularly in how it handles the human elements of its story. There’s a sterile, disconnected feel to much of the film, as though Cronenberg had something profound to say but never found the right cinematic language to fully express it. The emotional core, which should be pulsating with grief, loss, and philosophical inquiry, ends up feeling cold and underdeveloped. Despite flashes of brilliance, The Shrouds flatlines more often than it flourishes.
Guy Pearce delivers a reliably strong performance, and Vincent Cassel is commanding in his role, providing a gravitas that elevates their scenes together. However, even their combined talent can’t overcome the muddled script or inject enough vitality into a narrative that often feels like it’s spinning its wheels. The actors seem trapped in a film that doesn’t quite know what it wants to be—part existential exploration, part sci-fi mystery, part techno-thriller—but never fully commits to any of them in a satisfying way.
Grief, as a theme, is complex and multi-faceted, and Cronenberg has tackled emotionally challenging material before with much more success. Here, grief is presented as a central concept but never resonates. It’s discussed, it’s hinted at, it’s stylized—but it’s rarely felt.
The Shrouds suggests that it’s about mourning and healing, yet it lacks the emotional intensity needed to make that journey compelling.
Cronenberg’s last outing, Crimes of the Future, sharply divided audiences. I happened to be on the side that adored it—it had a grimy beauty and a bold, unapologetic weirdness that worked for me. But for those who didn’t connect with that film, The Shrouds will likely be an even tougher sell. The pacing here is especially challenging—at times, it’s akin to watching paint dry. The film plods along without urgency, and the direction, surprisingly, feels muted and almost passive.
It’s a far cry from the visceral energy of Cronenberg’s earlier work. Even more surprising is how underwritten the female characters are. For a filmmaker who has often given us complex, unsettling portrayals of women—from Dead Ringers to Crash—the lack of depth given to the female roles in The Shrouds feels like a serious misstep. It’s as though they exist only to support the male characters’ arcs, with little of their own narrative agency.
Perhaps this was intended to be an experimental piece—a cinematic meditation on mortality and surveillance—but if so, it struggles to hold attention. The Shrouds was never likely to be a mainstream hit, much like most of Cronenberg’s work outside of The Fly, but that doesn’t excuse its sluggish pace and unfocused narrative. At nearly two hours long, it feels bloated and self-indulgent. A tighter, 90-minute cut might have made a world of difference.
In the end, The Shrouds is a misfire—an ambitious but ultimately dull film weighed down by its own philosophical musings. The cast deserved better, and frankly, so did we.
