David Cronenberg just might be the only director capable of adapting William S. Burroughs' drug-fueled descent into paranoia, isolation, murder, conspiracy, hallucination, depravity, and… self-actualization? The director's visionary deadpan perfectly places a stoney-faced Peter Weller into a world of beetle-like typewriters and narcotic-secreting, tough-talking mugwumps without it coming off as, you know: stupid.

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If you'd like to watch ahead for next week's film, we will be discussing and reviewing Agnès Varda's Le Bonheur (1965).