'Spider' spins captivating web from threads of memory

Spider," David Cronenberg's splendid new psychological thriller, is full of surprises — so much so it's going to be near-impossible to review this film without revealing too much. So see the movie first, read the review — and the marvelously creepy Patrick McGrath novel on which the movie's based — later, and don't let anyone tell you about the twists in this "Spider's" web until you get to experience them firsthand.

Still with me? OK, you've been warned. The tale of an emotionally disturbed man (Ralph Fiennes) obsessed with his childhood memories, "Spider" is a restrained and elegant piece of work from a director whose name is more readily associated with goo and gore. This story takes place inside a man's head, and it's as scary a place as any previous Cronenberg destination. And by the time it's over, nothing is what it first seemed, leaving us with the idea of memory as a cracked, distorted mirror.

Dennis Cleg, nicknamed "Spider," has just been released from a mental institution when he arrives at a grim halfway house run by the formidable Mrs. Wilkinson (Lynn Redgrave) in 1980s London. (The squalor of her establishment runs deep; the water from the taps is rust-colored, like blood.) Spider, who dresses in grayed, fraying layers of clothing, carries his possessions in a battered suitcase — crumpled pajamas, a clock and a diary, in which he obsessively captures his thoughts in a tiny, hieroglyphic-like code.

Those thoughts — mad, paranoid, accompanied by pained murmurings — go back to his childhood and his parents' troubled marriage. In flashbacks, we see Spider's childhood home, and the brooding, skinny-legged child (Bradley Hall) within it. But the grown Spider is present, too, peering through windows and down hallways; he guides us through these memories like a ghost, reminding us that all this is being filtered through a consciousness that's not entirely reliable. And as a terrible triangle unfolds involving Spider's father (Gabriel Byrne), his mother (Miranda Richardson) and another woman (also Richardson), we begin to understand the adult Spider, even as his past bleeds into his present.

Much about "Spider" would reward a second viewing; Cronenberg, with screenwriter McGrath, has created a claustrophobic little world of easy-to-miss detail. (Watch closely when young Spider first meets the blond floozy in the bar, then compare her to later scenes.) And the mood of simmering quiet, reminiscent of Cronenberg's elegant "Dead Ringers," grabs hold of you. Not much happens in "Spider," but you wouldn't notice.

Shot in decayed-looking greens and grays, at times looking as if the entire film had developed a fine layer of mold, "Spider" creeps along on its own time, letting us observe the mastery of its actors. Fiennes, his handsomeness hidden (mostly) behind shabby clothes, grungy hair and fumbling nicotine-stained fingers, is haunting, speaking in trapped whispers. It's a role that could easily have turned show-offy, but Fiennes has perfect control.

And Richardson, as both the angelic, troubled mother and the low-rent good-time girl, is staggeringly good. It's rare that this actress gets an opportunity to display her talent (she was glowing in the tiny role of Virginia Woolf's sister in "The Hours") and she makes the most of it, laughing hoarsely and horribly through tobacco-stained teeth. In a movie whose horror is generally kept off the screen, that laugh is enough to create nightmares.

Ultimately, "Spider" is an evocative, troubling journey through a man's memories, leaving us pondering, in the words of the book, "Is a memory always and only the echo of its last occasion? Which in turn is just an echo of the one before?"

Moira Macdonald: 206-464-2725 or mmacdonald@seattletimes.com