Some films come out of the gate with a mission to disturb, provoke, or maybe just make you squirm in your theater seat and question your life choices. Rabid, David Cronenberg’s 1977 back-alley bloodbath of bodily betrayal, is all of those things and probably a few more that require a latex glove and a flashlight to identify. This is the movie where a porn star sprouts a parasitic armpit dong and turns Montreal into a failed biohazard containment zone. It’s the Canadian public health system’s worst nightmare, gory, gooey, and proudly bilingual.
Fresh off the unholy success of Shivers, Cronenberg was handed another round of Canadian taxpayer dollars, this time laundered through a side hustle with an unfinished trucker flick called Convoy (no, not that Convoy). Criticism from film critics, cultural watchdogs, and presumably, some deeply unsettled Ottawa bureaucrats nearly shut him out, but Cronenberg, Canada’s prophet of pus, persisted.
Originally titled Mosquitoes, the film evolved from a confined infection tale (à la Shivers) into a more sprawling biohorror epidemic, spanning from the countryside to Montreal’s subways and softcore theaters. The director allegedly had a moment of clarity midway through scripting and realized the premise involved a woman growing a “cock thing” in her armpit and feeding on blood. He considered quitting. I’m glad he didn’t. Canadian cinema needs its weirdos.
Cronenberg wanted Sissy Spacek. Her freckles and Texan accent, according to producer John Dunning, were apparently more frightening than armpit genitalia, so no dice. Enter Ivan Reitman, who suggested Marilyn Chambers for “sex appeal” and general recognizability (translation: she did Behind the Green Door, and marketing is a cruel mistress). Cronenberg hadn’t even seen her infamous film, which may have worked in his favor. He directed Chambers like a serious actress, and surprise, she delivered.
The story is a bleak, lurching descent into a state of contagion. After a fiery motorcycle crash, Chambers’ Rose ends up at the Keloid Clinic, a plastic surgery center named after scar tissue, because subtlety was in short supply that day. She wakes up with a newfound thirst for blood and a phallic stinger buried in her underarm. Cue the transmission of a rage-inducing rabies-like virus that turns Canada’s polite citizenry into raving maniacs. Along the way, there’s a disco single (“Benihana,” sung by Chambers herself), military overreach, and a very dead baby. It’s not exactly a first-date movie unless your date works for the CDC.
When Rabid hit theaters in 1977, critics did what they do best: recoil in horror and clutch their pearls. Variety called it nauseating. The Vancouver Sun lamented the dialogue. The Montreal Star wanted less time in cars and more time with coherent plotting. Meanwhile, ticket buyers in Montreal made it one of Canada’s top-grossing films. The moral? If you want to make money in the Canadian film industry, lead with armpit trauma.
Over time, Rabid gained more credibility, especially in the UK and France, where it was paired with Shivers in double bills for adventurous cinephiles and disaffected college students. Even the critics who once sneered began to admire its infectious ambition and allegorical heft. The film unspools like a virus itself: grotesque, incremental, and hard to shake.
The 2019 remake? Let’s not. It swapped grimy 70s nihilism for a kind of self-conscious girlboss biotech empowerment arc, which sounds better on paper than it plays on screen. The less said, the better. The original Rabid remains the definitive guide to why you shouldn’t trust medical professionals who perform skin grafts in barns.
Rabid is part plague film, part exploitation flick, and all Cronenberg, a squirmy entry in the great Canadian body-horror canon. It’s neither his best nor his worst, but it is singular. You’ll never look at an armpit, or a cow, or Montreal, the same way again. A solid three stars for ambition, creep factor, and for putting a disco track on a horror soundtrack like a true maniac.
⭐️⭐️⭐️ (3/5)
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