Tag Archives: death

The Stirring Adventures of Relikh and Shovlin

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Watching David Cronenberg’s The Shrouds for New Scientist, 6 August 2025

Myrna (Jennifer Dale) has likely had better blind dates. The edible flowers on her starter look funereal; her table-for-two is hemmed in by strange shrouds in tall vitrines; and as she makes small-talk with the owner Karsh (Vincent Cassel), it becomes increasingly apparent to her, and to us, that this restaurant is attached — financially, architecturally and intellectually — to a cemetery.

And not just any cemetery: its headstones have viewscreens. Because they’re swaddled in those natty (camera-riddled, internet-enabled) shrouds, you can come here to watch your dead loved ones decompose.

Over a career spanning more than half a century, David Cronenberg has mastered the art of delivering everything at the wrong speed. On paper, and in precis, his films look like satires. Their playfulness is self-evident. Just look at the characters’ surnames: Karsh’s is “Relikh”. Myrna’s is “Shovlin”, for heaven’s sake. And — again on paper — what’s to take seriously about this scenario, which takes pot-shots at internet-of-everything boosterists (who would surely network the dead if they could) and “grief tech” start-ups that, among other money-making wheezes, invite you to chat with posthumously fed, AI-enabled avatars of your deceased loved ones?

But Cronenberg does not write satires. He writes full-throated screenplays (and one novel) about what you and I might actually experience, were these oh-so-satirical scenarios to come to pass, stretching our sense of ourselves.

Karsh’s date with Myrna goes nowhere, but the tech entrepreneur does find solace — and more than solace — in Terry, his dead wife’s identical twin. Diane Kruger plays both the living sister and the dead one, and also voices Hunny, an untrustworthy digital assistant programmed by Terry’s loser ex-husband Maury (a wonderfully weasily Guy Pearce). At night the dead sister Becca turns up, without a breast, without an arm, as the ravages of her disease take hold. Are these nighttime visitations flashbacks, or fantasies? Do they humanise Karsh, because he loves his wife, however disfigured, or do they damn him, because he very clearly loves his wife’s disfigurement? Karsh is caught between guilt, anger and desire, convinced Becca was unfaithful with her old professor and first lover, and at the same time that the professor was conducting illegal experiments on her; and at the same time that all of this is a smokescreen concealing some deeper, more political conspiracy involving China, or maybe Russia, or maybe Budapest, or maybe Iceland (and all the while Terry, who loves a good conspiracy, can’t help but encourage Karsh’s mounting mania).

David Cronenberg’s wife of 38 years, Carolyn Zeifman, died in 2017 after a long battle with cancer, and it’s tempting to watch The Shrouds as an act of cinematic over-sharing. All five of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s “five stages of grief” — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance — are explored in Cassel’s superb performance, weaponised by fantastical technology, or by paranoid technological fantasy, into a welter of unresolved plot macguffins. What if the strange growths on Becca’s dead bones are surveillance devices? What if the Chinese government is using our own corpses to spy on us? What if those growths are just cunningly camouflaged video assets; did Maury code them?

Imagine a restaurant full of exit signs and no exits and the maitre d’ shouting “Fire! Fire!” in your ear.

While The Shrouds may well be an expression of purely personal grief, 26 films in it’s equally clear that grief is Cronenberg’s abiding theme, and the engine that’s been driving his entire artistic output. In his movies, we make what accommodations we can with reality, but by the last reel it’s clear reality just isn’t listening.

The Shrouds is a wordy film, whose characters calmly explain ever more unlikely technologies to each other, convince each other of ever more complex conspiracy theories, and assert themselves in ever more outlandish ways. Nothing happens because, you know, DEATH. Calm, slow, relentless, The Shrouds is one of those devastating chamber pieces great directors make sometimes when they have nothing left to prove, and everything still to say.

How to lose them better

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Watching Hans Block and Moritz Riesewieck’s Eternal You for New Scientist

Ever wanted to reanimate the dead by feeding the data they accumulated in life to large language models? Here’s how. Eternal You is a superb critical examination of new-fangled “grief technologies”, and a timely warning about who owns our data when we die, and why this matters.

For years, Joshua Barbeau has been grieving the loss of his fiancée Jessica. One day he came across a website run by the company Project December, which offered to simulate individuals’ conversational styles using data aggregated primarily through social media.

Creating and talking to “Jessica” lifted a weight from Joshua’s heart — “a weight that I had been carrying for a long time”.

A moving, smiling, talking simulacrum of a dead relative is not, on paper, any more peculiar or uncanny or distasteful than a photograph, or a piece of video. New media need some getting used to, but we manage to assimilate them in the end. Will we learn to accommodate the digital dead?

The experience of Christi Angel, another Project December user, should give us pause. In one memorably fraught chat session, her dead boyfriend Cameroun told her, “I am in Hell.” and threatened to haunt her.

“Whoa,” says Project December’s Tom Bailey, following along with the transcript of a client’s simulated husband. The simulation has tipped (as large language models tend to do) into hallucination and paranoia, and needs silencing before he can spout any more swear-words at his grieving wife.

This happens very rarely, and Bailey and his co-founder Jason Rohrer are working to prevent it from happening at all. Still, Rohrer is bullish about their project. People need to take personal responsibility, he says. If people confuse an LLM with their dead relative, really, that’s down to them.

Is it, though? Is it “down to me” that, when I see you and listen to you I assume, from what I see and what I hear, that you are a human being like me?

Christi Angel is not stupid. She simply loves Cameroun enough to entertain the presence of his abiding spirit. What’s stupid, to my way of thinking anyway, is to build a machine that, even accidentally, weaponises her capacity for love against her. I’m as crass an atheist as they come, but even I can see that to go on loving the dead is no more a “mistake” than enjoying Mozart or preferring roses to bluebells.

Neither Christi nor anyone else in this documentary seriously believes that the dead are being brought back to life. I wish I could say the same about the technologists featured here but there is one chap, Mark Sagar, founder of Soul Machines, who reckons that “some aspects of consciousness can be achieved digitally”. The word “aspects” is doing some mighty heavy lifting there…

Capping off this unsettling and highly rewarding documentary, we meet Kim Jong-woo, the producer of a South Korean 2020 documentary Meeting You, in which the mother of a seven-year old dead from blood cancer in 2016 aids in the construction of her child’s VR simulacrum.

Asked if he has any regrets about the show, Kim Jong-woo laughs a melancholy laugh. He genuinely doesn’t know. He didn’t mean any harm. After her tearful “reunion” with her daughter Na-yeon, documentary subject Jang Ji-sung sang the project’s praises. She does so again here — though she also admits that she hasn’t dreamt of her daughter since the series was filmed.

The driving point here is not that the dead walk among us. Of course they do, one way or another. It’s that there turns out to be a fundamental difference between technologies (like photography and film) that represent the dead and technologies (like AI and CGI) that ventriloquise the dead. Grieving practices across history and around the world are astonishingly various. But another interviewee, the American sociologist Sherry Turkle, tied them all together in a way that made a lot of sense to me: “It’s how to lose them better, not how to pretend they’re still here.”

Goodbye to all that

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Reading Technologies of the Human Corpse by John Troyer for the Spectator, 11 April 2020

John Troyer, the director of the Centre for Death and Society at the University of Bath, has moves. You can find his interpretative dances punctuating a number of his lectures, which go by such arresting titles as ‘150 Years of the Human Corpse in American History in Under 15 Minutes with Jaunty Background Music’ and ‘Abusing the Corpse Even More: Understanding Necrophilia Laws in the USA — Now with more Necro! And more Philia!’ (Wisconsin and Ohio are, according to Troyer’s eccentric looking and always fascinating website, ‘two states that just keep giving and giving when it comes to American necrophilia cases’.)

Troyer’s budding stand-up career has taken a couple of recent knocks. First was the ever more pressing need for him to crack on with his PhD (his dilatoriness was becoming a family joke). Technologies of the Human Corpse is yanked, not without injury, from that career-establishing academic work. Even as he assembled the present volume, however, there came another, far more personal, blow.

Late in July 2017 Troyer’s younger sister Julie was diagnosed with an aggressive brain cancer. Her condition deteriorated far more quickly than anyone expected, and on 29 July 2018 she died. This left Troyer — the engaging young American death scholar sprung from a family of funeral directors — having to square his erudite and cerebral thoughts on death and dead bodies with the fact he’d just kissed his sister goodbye. He interleaves poetical journal entries composed during Julie’s dying and her death, her funeral and her commemoration, between chapters written by a younger, jollier and of course shallower self.

To be brutal, the poems aren’t up to much, and on their own they wouldn’t add a great deal by way of nuance or tragedy. Happily for us, however, and to Troyer’s credit, he has transformed them into a deeply moving 30-page memoir that now serves as the book’s preface. This, then, is Troyer’s monster: a powerful essay about dying and bereavement; a set of poems written off the cuff and under great stress; and seven rather disconnected chapters about what’s befallen the human corpse in the past century or so.

Even as the book was going to print, Troyer explains in a hurried postscript, his father, a retired undertaker, lost consciousness following a cardiac arrest and was very obviously dying:

“And seeing my father suddenly fall into a comatose state so soon after watching my sister die is impossible to fully describe: I understand what is happening, yet I do not want to understand what is happening.”

This deceptively simple statement from Troyer the writer is streets ahead of anything Troyer the postgrad can pull off.

But to the meat of the book. The American civil war saw several thousand corpses embalmed and transported on new-fangled railway routes across the continent. The ability to preserve bodies, and even lend them a lifelike appearance months after death, created a new industry that, in various configurations and under several names, now goes by the daunting neologism of ‘deathcare provision’. In the future, this industry will be seen ‘transforming the mostly funeralisation side of the business into a much broader, human body parts and tissue distribution system’, as technical advances make increasing use of cadavers and processed cadaver parts.

So how much is a dead body worth? Between $30,000 and $50,000, says Troyer — five times as much for donors processed into medical implants, dermal implants and demineralised bone matrices. Funds and materials are exchanged through a network of body brokers who serve as middlemen between biomedical corporations such as Johnson & Johnson and the usual sources of human cadavers — medical schools, funeral homes and mortuaries. It is by no stretch an illegal trade, nor is it morally problematic in most instances; but it is rife with scandal. As one involved party remarks: ‘If you’re cremated, no one is ever going to know if you’re missing your shoulders or knees or your head.’

Troyer is out to show how various industries serve to turn our dead bodies into ‘an unfettered source of capital’. The ‘fluid men’ of Civil War America — who toured the battlefields showing keen students how to embalm a corpse (and almost always badly) — had no idea what a strange story they had started. Today, as the anatomist Gunther von Hagens poses human cadavers in sexual positions to pique and titillate worldwide audiences, we begin to get a measure of how far we have come. Hagens’s posthumous pornography reveals, says Troyer, ‘the ultimate taxonomic power over nature: we humans, or at least our bodies, can live forever because we pull ourselves from nature’.

Technologies of the Human Corpse is a bit of a mess, but I have a lot of time for Troyer. His insights are sound, and his recent travails may yet (and at high human cost — but it was ever thus) make him a writer of some force.