![]() Yes, he had his penis inside something slapped together in a lab, but didn’t she want to play god? Wasn’t she after some petty redemption by using her psychotic mom’s genes to produce a sister? He plays it brilliantly, as Elsa does in fact forget his appalling sin, as do we, if only because the image was damn near enough to burn our retinas clean. Only there’s no estate sale at Belle Reeve, just Clive pulling distractions from his pockets like a frantic bum trying to find enough change for a bottle of booze. The moments following the illicit discovery play like something out of Tennessee Williams, complete with our aggrieved hero turning the tables and all but blaming his indulgence on the whims of fate. ![]() After all, when Elsa discovers her man in the throes of passion with the hyper-aggressive Dren, she seems less shocked than sadly, predictably, affirmed as a prognosticator. It’s the unavoidable dilemma all mixed families face, and Splice all but argues that far from The Brady Bunch ideal, these artificial creations are rife with disorder, disgust, and a propensity for immoral (and perhaps illegal) sexual intercourse. She senses it, as all protective women do, much more so when they bring a wee one aboard that does not share a similar bloodline. One initially assumes this is due to their professional obsessions, but at the end of the day, it’s at least in part reflective of mommy’s concern that daddy will swing too close to his own family tree. Our dedicated scientific team – Clive and the sexy geek allure of Sarah Polley (Elsa) – want to shake up the world with their research, and can’t let a little thing like having children get in their way. It is at the point of insertion, though, that we revisit all that has come before us and conclude with perverted delight that above all, this is sci-fi alarmism at its best, and perhaps the year’s most pointed warning against impending parenthood. There really is no other reason to see Splice, of course, though watching a respected thespian fuck his mutant daughter with a passion he could barely muster for his own wife makes up for the multitude of deficits found in the picture’s brief limp across a dirty screen. ![]() I’d dismiss it out of hand were it not for the lab coats. Her name, incidentally, is Dren (yes, “nerd” spelled backwards, in case you missed it), and she grows from screeching pod to a woman about town during her brief stay in an isolated barn, the very barn where she seduces the hapless Brody. But by god, he fucks it, or her, or whatever, in a love scene so tender and erotic that there’s no shame in admitting a slight twinge down below, if only because the inhumanity of it all is no match for the broad’s tits. It’s a heavenly marriage, all in the name of science, and the result – a bald, fish-eyed, kangaroo-limbed monstrosity with the sting of a scorpion and the beauty of a pre-Pope tearing Sinead O’Connor – will be mounted by none other than Adrien Brody (Clive), even though the creature in question is technically his daughter, or at the very least a minor in his care. Though not really an animal, per se, but a genetically modified hybrid that combines the DNA of an insane woman with the cellular structure of a panting hemorrhoid. In the long, and seemingly endless parade of slumming Oscar winners (headed, of course, with baton held high, by a Pepsi-soaked Joan Crawford probing and pawing a walking carpet in her cinematic swan song), there’s been no shortage of ham-fistedness, embarrassed cowering, and blatant whoring, but for the first and only time, the little golden man has fucked an animal.
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