The Shrouds: new Cronenberg film is an elusive meditation on death, grief and environmental ethics

American filmmaker David Cronenberg is a leading figure in body horror, a film genre that explores disturbing and often grotesque aspects of the human body. Films such as The Fly (1986), eXistenZ (1999) and Crimes of the Future (2022) depict scenes of physical mutilation, illness and technological invasion to represent deeper fears about identity, society and the human condition.

Through intense bodily imagery, Cronenberg’s films raise powerful questions about human relationships with technology and nature. As our relationship with technology rapidly evolves alongside escalating environmental catastrophe, there is a timely significance in these ideas.

His latest film, The Shrouds, evokes the writing of Stacy Alaimo, a scholar known for her work exploring the connections between the human body, the environment, and the social forces that shape both. Alaimo’s work combines feminist and materialist ideas and examines how our bodies are physically connected to the world around us – not separate from nature or society, but shaped by both ecological systems and social structures.

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Like Cronenberg, Alaimo is interested in the entanglement of human flesh with more-than-human worlds, alongside the interplay between bodies and objects.

In The Shrouds, the body, specifically that of Becca (Diane Kruger) is placed firmly at the centre of the story. Appearing both as a decaying corpse and naked in dream sequences, her body bears fresh surgical scars which are unbandaged and exposed.

Becca’s body is shown as intensely vulnerable, a gendered depiction of femaleness which is controlled literally by the male gaze through the “shroud”, a piece of sci-fi wearable tech. It comprises a suit of MRI and X-ray cameras which encases a corpse, allowing decomposition to be monitored through a live video link with an app.

This conceit embeds Becca both in the Earth and in technology, creating deeply memorable imagery which challenges viewers to think about death, grief and the environmental ethics surrounding human burial.

The presentation of Becca’s body evokes Alaimo’s concept of transcorporeality. In her 2010 book Bodily Natures, Alaimo describes transcorporeality as the idea that “the human is ultimately inseparable from ‘the environment’” – continually transformed through interactions with the landscape, chemicals, technology and non-human forces. Becca’s corpse, decaying in real-time on a live link, highlights this connection.

Grief: the fictional and the personal

The film opens with Karsh (Vincent Kassel), Becca’s bereaved husband, in a dentist’s chair being told, “Grief is rotting your teeth”. The film as a whole can be read as a meditation on how grief seeps into and changes the body.

Written following the death of David Cronenberg’s wife (and initially conceived of as a Netflix series), Cronenberg has rejected the idea that it is fully autobiographical. It is, however, difficult to fully separate the director from the story.

Cassel as Karsh physically resembles Cronenberg in the film, blurring the boundary between fiction and the personal. Physical duplication is a disorienting motif of the film. Kruger reappears as Becca’s sister Terri and as an animated AI assistant named Honey.

Alongside the grotesque images of her decaying body, these versions of Kruger are especially striking. Cassel’s performance as the controlling and obsessive Karsh is nuanced and understated. His desire to monitor Becca’s decomposition is presented as a logical step to regain possession of her from her illness, and is deeply disturbing.

It also has ominous and timely resonance in our modern world, where controversial technology exists that permits artificial intelligence to create avatars of the dead to comfort the bereaved.

The film becomes a mimetic piece on grief, where boundaries between imagination and reality dissolve. Cronenberg’s frequent collaborator Howard Shore provides an ambient score that reinforces this dissolution. Ethereal and bass-rich, it features spacious, slowly evolving melodies wrapped in velvety synth textures which evoke a dream-like soundscape.

As the plot progresses into a tangle of conspiracy theories, lines blur between Karsh’s dreams and reality. Background plots drift unresolved, characters are vaguely sketched. Themes of environmental activism versus capitalist enterprise, the exploitation of technology, illegal surveillance and government corruption are all threaded through the story, but none are fully realised. This is not a film which offers a straightforward narrative or closure. Like grief, it remains raw, fluid and difficult to contain.

Throughout, the film returns to Becca’s decaying body, encased in a shroud that is described as both toxic and radioactive, an object of controversy for eco-activists. “She’s dead, remember, she can’t do anything,” Karsh’s companion reminds him.

But this is not true for Becca. In death, her body is watched and consumed by systems of surveillance and ecological anxiety. Symbolising Alaimo’s concept of transcorporeality, Becca’s decaying corpse, wrapped in technology, but buried in the Earth, is deeply connected to the environment and cannot be separated from it. Her body is influenced by both its natural surroundings and social factors such as the shroud’s technology, outside interference and Karsh’s control.

Karsh asserts that burial is a complex matter, converging politics, religion and economics. The Shrouds raises questions that touch on all of these, but provides no tangible answers. Some viewers will be frustrated by the film’s lack of logical structure and resolution. But it is also fair to say that this is how it mirrors the pathways of grief itself: unwieldy, unpredictable and consuming.

Laura O'Flanagan does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.