The Remote Viewer: Brandon Cronenbergs’ Possessor

I originally wrote this piece drawing heavily from Žižeks books Looking Awry and Violence, the Everything you always wanted to know about Lacan, but were afraid to ask Hitchcock compendium (particularly Bonitzers’ Hitchcockian Suspense), McGowans’ The Real Gaze: Film Theory After Lacan, and Lacans’ own Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis. With this revision, I am introducing ideas drawn from reading Joan Copjecs’ The Orthopsychic Subject: Film theory and the reception of Lacan, which challenged some of the assumptions of my earlier draft, prompting me to revise some of my original assertions. I wrote this for a second year sociology paper, and despite my best intentions, I always felt that my articulation of the gaze, the mirror and the objet petit `a missed a trick somewhere. So this posting is a gesture toward bridging that gap and perhaps producing a more satisfying synthesis.

A woman gazes at herself in a bathroom mirror. She inserts a tiny probe into her skull, attached to a small device in a leather case. The woman tunes the dial on the device, which looks like an old transistor radio, and the audience hears a soundwave that increases in pitch and amplitude. Expressions of intense distress play across the woman’s face in the mirror as she performs this action. Finally, the dial settles at a constant pitch, and her face relaxes into a vacant stare.

Tasya Vos is a killer. She has never killed anyone with her bare hands, but she possesses a mind uniquely predisposed to murder. The nameless company she works for uses advanced brain implant technology to ‘possess’ unwitting accomplices as proxies and uses them to carry out these hits on behalf of a private clientele. Colin Taite is a former drug dealer, now a dissolute and aimless employee of ZooLook, a powerful company run by his fiancée Ava's father, the ruthless tech mogul John Parse. 

Vos is a corporate assassin, whose trademark is graphic violence. Her targets are high-powered lawyers and CEOs, people like John Parse. Taite is Tasya’s chosen proxy. More than just a target; he's a stepping stone in a corporate power struggle that Vos's employers are eager to exploit. By possessing Taite, Vos aims to kill Parse, Ava, and Tate himself, but this mission proves to be more complex. Unlike previous hosts, Taite resists Vos's control, pushing the boundaries of her psychological and psychic dominance. This struggle between them becomes the film's central conflict, exploring themes of identity, power, and the fractured nature of self. 

Possessor uses its camera work to explore the duality of Tasya Vos's life. When Tasya possesses a subject, the camera glides smoothly, reflecting how much more at ease she is when inhabiting someone else's identity. This serene movement contrasts sharply with the shaky, hand-held shots that characterize Tasya's life outside her work, hinting at her discomfort and growing awareness of her own alterity. These contrasting visual styles suggest that Possessor is a film deeply obsessed with the gaze. They mirror Tasya's unstable psychological state, particularly in her strained relationships with her partner Michael, and Ira, her son. 

Tasya's perspective is constantly unsettled, haunted by the threat of the real breaking through her constructed world. Just as she uses technology to possess others and force them into acts of violence, the audience is drawn into her experience, ‘possessing’ her through the camera's lens. This interaction forces viewers into a troubling position; they are invited to either take part in the violence by sharing her gaze or to feel repulsed by it. Either way, the audience becomes complicit in the brutality on screen, forced to confront their own relationship with the gaze and violence.

The film plays with irony in making the audience complicit in the violence through Vos's perspective. She uses a proxy to carry out her murders, and in turn, we use Vos as our proxy. This layered possession raises the question: Who truly holds the gaze in Possessor? Perhaps it isn’t Vos, or the audience, but the unwitting victim—the one who serves as the real witness to these acts. Via these juxtapositions, the film blurs lines between the perpetrator, viewer, and victim, challenging us to confront our relationship to the on-screen violence.

Possessor engages with two cinematic techniques that philosopher Slavoj Žižek identifies as the 'Anal' and 'Parallel' montage. The 'Anal' montage distorts the visual field, cutting and fragmenting the scene to obscure the origin of the gaze. In the film, Tasya Vos and Colin Taite experience a psychic struggle where their identities seem to merge. Faces smear and multiply across the screen, screaming silently into a void, creating a visceral need to tear them apart. This chaotic blending of identities is visually amplified through violent red and blue strobe effects, reminiscent of the stark contrasts of classic giallos by Mario Bava.

One particularly striking scene illustrates this technique when Vos enters Taite's consciousness during an intimate moment with his girlfriend, Ava. Here, Vos's presence both emasculates Taite and masculinises herself, as she becomes the literal possessor of his phallus. In a later hallucination, Taite chokes Vos, who implodes and leaves behind only her empty skin. He then pulls her face over his own like a grotesque mask. These moments force the audience to question the gaze: Are we seeing through Taite's eyes, Vos's, or both? This ambiguity leaves us in a state of uncertainty, blurring the lines between viewer, subject, and the possessed.

The 'parallel montage' in film refers to two characters' alternating yet interconnected actions, creating a sense of simultaneous, coexisting paths. This technique builds tension as the characters' journeys converge. In Possessor, this dual arc is embodied by Tasya Vos and Colin Taite. Vos's mission is to kill John Parse and ensure Taite's death as well, but Taite has his own plans. He wants to uncover who is manipulating him and why, setting the stage for a tense psychological struggle.

This dynamic mirrors Alfred Hitchcock's Frenzy (1972), where multiple murders and circumstantial evidence entangle the protagonists in a web of suspicion. Similarly, in Possessor, Vos and Taite are uneasily coupled, forced into a deadly game by external forces. Vos fights to control Taite, but his determination to understand his dilemma disrupts her plans. This interplay of conflicting objectives drives the narrative forward, reminiscent of the Hitchcockian suspense where a man and woman are thrust into a perilous predicament by unseen, perverse forces.

When Vos takes over Taite's body, we enter what Slavoj Žižek calls the "phallic montage." This concept refers to the hidden tension that lingers in everyday interactions when we are aware of an underlying threat. As Vos inhabits Taite, familiar moments between him and his girlfriend Ava start to feel strange and unsettling. Vos, cuckoo-like in Taite's body, repeats phrases she observed him speaking during her surveillance of him. After a kiss, Ava pauses and stares at Taite, sensing that something is off.

One of the most disturbing moments occurs when Vos, while posing as Taite, uses a knife to cut an apple at the kitchen table. Earlier in the film, we saw Vos perform a similar action while entertaining her own family, and it felt ominous because we know her capacity for violence. Now, this simple gesture is repeated, and it carries an eerie sense of foreboding. What was once a normal, comforting act now feels loaded with sinister possibilities. The calm surface of their daily life is shattered, leaving us, the audience, in a state of constant unease, unsure of when the threat will materialise.

For Tasya Vos, the concept of desire is akin to what Lacanian psychoanalysis calls the "objet petit a"—an object that promises fulfilment but never truly satisfies. In Tasya's case, this desire is the idea that she can form meaningful and empathetic relationships with others. However, the harsh reality reveals itself: Tasya is so deeply alienated that she has become estranged from her own family. Her inability to confront or restrain her violent urges shows that she is incapable of normal emotional connections.

Tasya clings to a memory from her childhood—a moment when she regretted killing a butterfly. She also longs for the possibility of reconciling with her estranged husband and son. Yet, these desires are illusions, masking the truth of her nature. The butterfly serves as a comforting substitute for the reality she can't face. In reality, Tasya's violent impulses make her a threat to the normal life she yearns for. Her true place is within the corporate world, where her employer, Girder, acts as a guiding paternal figure. Girder indoctrinates Tasya into her role, suggesting that her true identity lies in her capacity to kill, not in her fleeting desire for human connection.

Taite manages to overcome Tasya because his attachment to his fantasy is more stable and consistent. Unlike Tasya, who is torn between her violent nature and a longing for normalcy, Taite has fully embraced his illusion of a perfect future. He dreams of marrying Ava, and securing a stable job in her father's company. It's the classic "fake it 'til you make it" mentality. Despite his past as a drug dealer and his ongoing dependence on substances, Taite clings to this dream. He remains invested in the idea that he can transform his life through sheer belief, even though Ava's father is a manipulative bully.

Tasya's violent intrusion into his life shatters this carefully constructed fantasy. Unlike Vos, who lives in a constant state of alienation, Taite has something he desperately wants to protect. However, we as the audience know the harsh reality—Taite is merely a pawn in a larger game, a convenient tool in a corporate power struggle. He isn't destined for greatness, he’s simply useful for the moment. Eventually, Ava will grow tired of him, and his life will likely spiral back into addiction and crime. Taite's fear of losing everything drives his actions, giving him the will to resist Tasya's control, if only temporarily.

The violence in Possessor is graphic and brutal, serving as a distorted mirror to the inherent violence within late capitalist society. Cronenberg uses these extreme scenes to draw our attention to what Slavoj Žižek calls "objective violence"—violence that is systemic and anonymous. This is the kind of harm that exists within the structures of society, often hidden behind the facades of corporations and institutions. Each time Vos ‘kills’—whether through stabbing, shooting, or beating—she is not just committing impersonal acts of violence. She’s doing her job, marking her place as a 'top performer' in a system that values brutality and efficiency.

John Parse, the CEO of ZooThroo and Vos's target, epitomizes this systemic violence. His company thrives on exploiting workers in sweatshop-like conditions, where employees are reduced to mere cogs in a machine, surveilling consumers through high-tech means. His callousness is so stark that even his own daughter describes him as a "human protozoa, feeding on misery." The film's portrayal of subjective violence—acts committed by individuals like Vos—serves as a deceptive layer, distracting us from the more pervasive violence of the capitalist system that orchestrates these acts.

Possessor offers what Todd McGowan calls "too much reality," forcing us to confront the disturbing conditions of our lived experience under late capitalism. It challenges viewers to look beyond the immediate bloodshed and question the system that demands such violence, revealing how deeply it is woven into the fabric of our society. Perhaps it's fitting that, following the films bloody climax, Parse is revealed to be the sole survivor of Vos's murderous attentions.

In the film's climax, Taite uses his insight into Vos's mind to turn the tables, taking her family hostage. A tense negotiation ensues, with Vos attempting to convince Taite that his desires have driven all the events leading up to this moment. Taite, predictably, resists this notion. In a chilling exchange, Vos goads Taite to harm her family, pushing the psychological stakes even higher. As tension peaks, Vos's husband Michael seizes an opportunity to attack Taite. In the ensuing chaos, Taite—or is it Vos?—kills him.

Desperate to regain control, Vos tries to force Taite to shoot himself, but once again, she fails. Frustrated, she cries out to her handlers, "Pull me out!" In the finales’ twist, Girder takes over Ira’s body and murders Taite. In a final, reflexive act, the dying Taite/Vos shoots and kills the child. This gruesome orchestration reveals Girder's cold gaze: to her, Vos is the asset, and everyone else—family included—is expendable.

This violent conclusion strips away any remnants of Vos's former life, liberating her to fully embrace her new role as Girder's protégé and "star performer." In the aftermath, Vos examines the mounted butterfly once again, but this time, without any trace of regret. The deaths of her family have freed her from her dysfunctional fantasies, allowing her to accept the psychopathic reality that defines her true nature. "Good," Girder remarks with approval. "Very good."

References:

Bonitzer, P. ‘Hitchcockian Suspense.’ (1992). In Žižek, S. (Ed). Everything you always wanted to know about Lacan (but were afraid to ask Hitchcock). London: Verso.

Copjec, J. (1989). The Orthopsychic Subject: Film Theory and the Reception of Lacan. October, 49, 53-71. Stable URL

Lacan, J., & Miller, Jacques-Alain. (2004). The four fundamental concepts of psycho-analysis. London: Karnac.

McGowan, T. (2007). The real gaze: Film theory after Lacan. ProQuest Ebook Central   

Žižek, S. (1991). Looking awry: An introduction to Jacques Lacan through popular culture (October books). Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.

Žižek, S. (2009). Violence. Profile Books.