In David Cronenberg’s 1996 movie Crash, and the novel by the same name, crashing is sex. Humans live vicariously through the machine of the car. These crashes are proof that these feelings happened, proof that contact was made. Crashes are moments full of life and sexuality. When I think of car lovers (no pun intended), I think of lifeless men I went on dates with in my early 20’s. The ones who didn’t pick up on my boredom when they began talking about different kinds of mufflers. I have always felt the same about cars and shoes; they can be fun, but they just need to get you where you need to go. They are transportation tools.
It wasn’t until I watched Crash a couple of years ago that my eyes were opened to the true potential of cars. I thought there might be something wrong with me because of how much I liked it. Immediately giving it five stars on Letterboxd. I was obsessed. It combines so many fantastic things: a synthy soundtrack, black leather, James Spader, and Holly Hunter with a great bob. It is sexy, stylish, and above all, perfectly contradictory. How was I finding such beauty in something as horrifying as a car accident?
Doomscrolling Toward Impact
Being a child of the internet era means I am no stranger to late-night doomscrolling. A common occurrence for me: It’s 2 a.m., and I’ve been scrolling on my phone for way too long. I know my eyes will hurt in the morning. I’ve ended up on one of many wildly popular, faceless accounts dedicated to dash cam videos of car crashes. Here I am, once again, entranced by something viscerally off-putting. I’ve personally (thankfully) only been in fender benders with parked cars, so what is it about these videos that I can’t get enough of? Maybe it’s morbid curiosity, but that usually is in search of some kind of explanation.
Here, there are no explanations or epilogues. The closest the videos get to featuring a person is a voice shouting, ‘Okay, Garmin. Save video!’ These videos aren’t about anyone in the cars; they’re about the cars as objects. The cars take on a sentience once they’ve experienced this collision. There is no longer a separation of driver, passengers, and the car; it becomes only the machine of the car. In particularly bad crashes, the comment sections may contain arguments over the probability of the passengers surviving. These arguments may go back and forth with fervor, but the conversation is merely mathematical; there are few emotions in these comment sections. In a car crash video, the insides are turned out, for all to see. Metal warped into foreign shapes, pushed into foreign spaces, and all viewed from the future on a stranger’s screen. The viewer becomes voyeur. People in these videos have no concept of who is watching them when or where.
The Erotics of Spectatorship
In Crash, the character of Vaughan (Elias Koteas) is a long-time lover and explorer of car crashes. In his own act of voyeurism, Vaughan keeps close watch over the victims of crashes at the hospital where he works. The recovery wing of the hospital becomes the perfect place for recruitment. In his spare time, he runs a small, very passionate group of enthusiasts who re-enact fatal celebrity crashes. He also compulsively photographs any real crashes he stumbles on. His philosophies are what propel the film. While explaining his love of crashes mid-film, he says, “The car crash is a fertilizing rather than a destructive event.” The comment sections of these TikToks, Reels, or Shorts are full of heated debates about which car is at fault, creating a content farm fertilized by the commenters spilling over frames of shattering glass and twisting metal, inches from the soft bodies inside. These video watchers are not explicitly sexual but obsessive nonetheless.
Although the original J.G. Ballard book was set in the United Kingdom, and Cronenberg set his adaptation in Canada, the story of Crash feels undeniably American. These scenes are laden with descriptions of intersecting highways filled with red taillights, waiting to be explored by this enlightened group of symphorophiles. Living in the United States means cars are ubiquitous; unless you’re in a large city, reliable public transportation is a pipe dream. The car promises to carry its passengers from point A to point B in tailored comfort. Car Culture goes beyond the bros with Instagram accounts dedicated to their cars; it is the epitome of American individualism. Adjustable seats, air conditioning, and heated steering wheels. Nothing happens in your car that you don’t approve of. It gives a false sense of control.
Hands Off the Wheel
Algorithms are a novel form of self-expression. Lingering on a video a little longer or liking a post trains these algorithms, these extensions of ourselves. I have found myself wondering many times how the hell I directed my suggested posts to things like crash videos. I can’t help but feel like something so intense says something about a part of myself I don’t know/understand/can’t control. All these negative feelings don’t stop me from watching them, though. It is the same contradiction I felt after seeing Crash for the first time. So, at these meeting points of mechanical self-expression, what blooms? Loss of control.
The Infinite Scroll is the ultimate loss of digital control. No choices, no thoughtful responses, just information and emotions. It’s been shown time and time again that extremes get views. Extremes like car crashes. Throughout the film, our protagonist, James Ballard (Spader), is led into the world of crash appreciators by Vaughan himself. The crashes take from their explorers relentlessly. Without care for their well-being, similarly to the tech bros behind our feeds. The passengers have their control taken from them, so why not give it away willingly? That, in the end, is the lesson learned. Let your hands fall off the wheel and drift over those yellow lines. When we scroll and end up on some page where we’ve lost control, are we also crossing those yellow lines?
