by Billie Anderson, Staff Writer

The first entry into my Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) 2024 roundup is a sentimental one. Two of my favorite films from TIFF this year were from two of my favorite directors, that both had very different approaches to representing life, death, and grief on screen. In the days post festival, I’ve spent some time looking at how David Cronenberg and Mike Flanagan portray ideas about living a full life, what happens after you die, and how you can grieve your loved ones (including yourself).

The Shrouds
Directed by David Cronenberg
Watched at TIFF, set to release in January 2025 compliments of Janus Films

“Grief is rotting your teeth.”

From the very first line of The Shrouds, David Cronenberg makes a powerful statement: the latest work from the pioneer of body horror is a visceral meditation on how grief penetrates the flesh and how technology complicates the grieving process. The Shrouds confronts audiences with the uncomfortable realities of grief and who we become in the process. Cronenberg persistently asks audiences a challenging question: what lengths would you go to preserve the memory of those you’ve lost?

The film follows Karsh (Vincent Cassel) as he grapples with the death of his wife Becca (Diane Kruger) from cancer, desperately striving to maintain an intercorporeal connection to her even after her decomposition. Karsh's approach to widowhood pushes well beyond conventional therapeutic methods, as the film reveals his grieving behavior borders on the realm of madness. Driven by a profound need to remain close to his wife, he ventures into unsettling territory—he’s not just grieving; he’s become an entrepreneur of a high-tech cemetery, the same cemetery where his wife is buried. Here, certain mourners can access a 24-hour feed of their loved ones’ decaying bodies, surrounded by cameras (each corpse encased in the titular shroud, a wearable MRI technology), creating a bizarrely immersive experience of loss.

The Shrouds navigates the tension between profound loss and the inherent absurdity of existence. Despite its somber themes, the film uncovers moments of levity amid the darkness, suggesting that death—and the absurdity faced by those it leaves behind—can be both deeply poignant and jarringly funny. His restless mind spirals into futile conspiracy theories, all ultimately incapable of restoring Becca to life or even to her grave. Yet, amid this dark humor, there’s a palpable tenderness and depth in Karsh’s longing for Becca. His attempts to use cameras, sensors, and digital editing—the very tools of his filmmaking—to conjure her presence in her absence reveal his desperate yearning. He clings to everything from her dental records to his cherished memories of her most familiar features (his favorite breast was the right one, it was the friendliest), refusing to say goodbye. Unflinching in his exploration of taboo, Cronenberg does not shy away from the awkward, persistent desires Karsh harbors for his wife’s body, even in its most fragile state.

Cronenberg accomplishes what few filmmakers dare to tackle: the raw, unsettling nature of grief intertwined with an emphasis on the physical absence of a loved one. While many films explore themes of loss and the struggle to move on, The Shrouds looks at the loss of intimate physical relationships between the bereaved and the deceased. What sets this film apart is its fixation on the corporeal, emphasizing how the body of the lost person becomes a vessel of memory and longing. Becca’s character is almost enigmatic; we learn little about her personality or life beyond her physical form. Yet, paradoxically, it’s this very focus on her body that speaks volumes about the connection between the living and the dead. Cronenberg uses this physicality to convey the complex emotions tied to grief—how it can manifest as both a burden and a source of comfort. By honing in on the physical aspects of Becca, Cronenberg asks us to grapple with the loss of intimacy in mourning. The stark contrast between the deep emotional ties and the limited understanding of her essence creates an eerie tension that lingers throughout, who was Becca more than a body? How do we, the audience, mourn her alongside Karsh if we don’t know her? In doing so, Cronenberg challenges viewers to confront their own perceptions of loss, pushing the boundaries of how grief can be represented on screen. This innovative approach makes The Shrouds not just a film about loss, but a profound meditation on the nature of memory and the body’s role in our emotional landscapes.

In the end, does this obsessive clinging help him move on? Absolutely not. In fact, it may be the very thing preventing him from finding peace. Yet for Karsh, and perhaps for those who have loved deeply, there is a reluctance to let go of that love, no matter how painful or irrational it becomes. This is perhaps the most profound takeaway from the film: love, even in its most deranged form, does not always seek release or closure. Perhaps the thing that will turn audiences away from enjoying this film is this uncertainty, it is his most inaccessible film after all. We aren’t met with a tight solution, but the ongoing uneasiness that grief persists, sustains, and rots us from within.

The Life of Chuck
Written by Mike Flanagan and Stephen King
Directed by Mike Flanagan
TIFF People’s Choice Winner 2024
Watched at TIFF, set to release summer 2025 compliments of Neon

“Later he will lose his grip on the difference between waking and sleeping and enter a land of pain so great that he will wonder why God made the world. Later he will forget his wife’s name. What he will remember—occasionally—is how he stopped, and dropped his briefcase, and began to move his hips to the beat of the drums, and he will think that is why God made the world. Just that.”

In contrast, director Mike Flanagan approaches the themes of living, grieving, and dying through a distinctly different lens. Flanagan captures the nuances of life’s transience, inviting viewers to confront their own fears and reflections on mortality.

At the outset of The Life of Chuck, we discover a world transformed: California has sunk beneath the waves, Florida lies submerged, and the internet has vanished—perhaps for good. Yet, amidst this chaos, the most puzzling event is a mysterious billboard that seemingly materializes overnight, declaring, “Charles Krantz. 39 great years. Thanks, Chuck!” alongside a photo of a clean-cut man in glasses seated at a desk. This prompts the townsfolk to wonder: who the hell is Chuck? We witness empty hospitals, old flames rekindling, and the world itself unraveling. Each moment of escalating apocalypse is juxtaposed with more images of Chuck, suggesting that the rise of his significance is intricately mapped onto the world's demise.

Through its runtime, the film asks audiences: What does it truly mean to exist? Does our brief time here hold any significance? And why do advertisements thanking Chuck keep appearing?

What truly resonates with me about The Life of Chuck isn’t just the stellar cast or the remarkable direction, but the film’s ability to convey a profoundly simple message. It offers a poignant exploration of life and death, highlighting how a single individual’s impact can alter the lives of those around them. This perspective may well make The Life of Chuck the most optimistic entry in Flanagan’s body of work to date. Its optimistic outlook shines through, presenting a positive view of life, even as the grandiose first act unfolds against an apocalyptic backdrop—reflecting what it feels like to lose someone who has touched your life, even briefly.

For those seeking an explanation for the end of the world, Flanagan provides a compelling one: when Chuck dies, so too do the versions of the people, places, and things around him that have been shaped through his eyes. Contrasting Cronenberg’s perspective that people (and their physical bodies) live on long past their demise, Flanagan argues that everything and everyone you know and love dies along with you. No, the world doesn’t end when Krantz dies, but the world dies to him. The Life of Chuck argues that each ordinary life has an extraordinary impact—a world ending impact. That might as well be why it lands so beautifully, especially as the beginning (or end of the story, so to speak) starts in a very grandiose manner. As it’s all recontextualized, it just leaves you with the feeling that each experience, each relationship, each moment in your life is gone when you are.

Like The Shrouds, much of the film is built around that feeling of loss, but it’s also built around the idea that as we go through someone’s life, Chuck’s life backwards, from death to his own childhood, we’re seeing a man who simply wants to live to the best of what he can. In doing so, what comes forth in The Life of Chuck is a tale about a man trying to catch up with all those missed opportunities in his own adult life. Flanagan shows us how all the little moments where our lives intersect or divert or run parallel to others eventually lead to, in the case of Chuck, thirty-nine great years. It's not the big moments or notable accomplishments, it's the way your grandmother danced while making breakfast or that drummer you heard on a business trip or one of your grandfather's ramblings. When audiences actually meet Chuck in Act II, nothing about him seems big enough to result in the end of the world, but that just might be Mike Flanagan's point.

The Shrouds, while stating that we all live on post-death, is ultimately a movie about dying. The Life of Chuck states that everything dies, and yet it’s a film entirely about the living.

Stay tuned for more TIFF coverage from your friendly MovieJawn staff here.