Furore furore furore. So much time wasted debating the banning by Westminster Council (later by the censors both sides of the Irish sea ) of Crash - a ridiculous idea given that most West End punters remove themselves from the inner city confines by public transport, remove themselves after the damage done to their tired lives. Ban Crash in multiplexes, places with capacity car-parks and easy access to more than two lane thoroughfares or afford viewers the opportunity for a half hour detox, or forty minutes tranquil alibidinal decompression after the film before placing hind-hoof to gas pedal. Come to think of it when I saw press screening at Odeon West End at that hour so early in the morning normally given over to prayer, there was a ten minute break between end of the film and discussion. It took a suspicious length of time for the press corps (a throng of men, mostly, with pads ajotting) to rise from their seats. It is my firm belief that a strong percentage of the watchers were turned on by the art they'd soaked in.

David Cronenberg is like a dudeish Noam Chomsky in ICA Mall standard black clothing. He is saying that one critic claimed Crash to be ''beyond the bounds of depravity'' and he agrees and continues to declare it ''important to explore human dangerousness.'' Hold on, be aware of susceptibilities, particularly my own. Cronenberg says that it is inevitable that some people only see the surface. ''I'm one such,'' I almost shout. ''Be thankful general public that I've no wheels hurrying me to point B or some of your surplus population might get mowed over.''

Almost three quarters of a million people have seen the movie in France and road statistics have not changed for the worse expounds Cronenberg. There is something far too balanced about this man. You can well imagine the French lapping up Crash, (Though Paris has just recently put greater curbs on traffic entering the city.) what with its distant and ambient modern nothingness and beautiful folk intercoursing fairly perfectly. The Pont Neuf, a Parisian bridge, late last century had been the sight for a particularly romantic suicide, I'll not detail the case in case I prompt further self-death. Many young men followed the precedent and leapt into the Seine. The authorities unsure of how to staunch the fanaticism happened on a facile but instantly beneficial solution - they closed off the Pont Neuf and the suiciders quit. Similarly instead of banning Crash in both Britain and Ireland, the authorities should shrink their road building fetish and ban all ads that connect driving vehicles with appeals to sex, specially the likes of caring 90s man rescuing little red riding hoods scored to 'Search for the Hero inside Yourself.' Bloody Nora! how easy to feel sexzest when you schmooze about in such a Vector or whatever the devil on wheels it is.

It took a suspicious length of time for the press corps (a throng of men, mostly, with pads ajotting) to rise from their seats. It is my firm belief that a strong percentage of the watchers were turned on by the art they'd soaked in.

The movie opens with the credits coming at you in a beautiful manner, like fish outa the deep, and that's the scariest it gets. There is no cruelty or leg-jellying horror. It is an immensely hypnotic chunk of time with some comic relief like when the wife of the sexy nerdish James Ballard (James Spader) says how she regrets they morgue the bodies so quickly; they should leave them lying round for months. Also funny is the hideaway of orthopaedic splif smoking rehashers of famous crashes. Their light relief is watching Volvo safety test videos in Swedish. Smashing.

The remainder of this article can be found in the illustrious pages of Film West 27.