William Burroughs's 1959 novel Naked Lunch is one of the grossest, most hyperactive things you will ever have the pleasure of reading. Structured as a series of chapter-length "routines" that can really be read in any order, the discombobulated and confusing book may seem like an unlikely candidate for a film adaptation. And David Cronenberg's adaptation certainly plays with that idea - of truth in "adaptation", and in art in general - by presenting itself as a kind of metatextual palimpsest to Burroughs's life and work. The novel is in there, somewhere, but so are elements of Burroughs's life. The writing of the book intersects with the author's severe drug addiction, making for one of the most visually striking and philosophically intriguing films in the past 25 years. There's definitely a lot to dislike in this sick and clammy flick, but there's a lot to dig through as well. It's interesting that Naked Lunch debuted the same year as the Coens' Barton Fink because both are so obsessed with the writer, the art creator, the inspiration, the drive. The films couldn't be more dissimilar at first glance. Still, there's something that Barton and Bill Lee and Burroughs and Cronenberg and the Coens all seem preoccupied with, something John Goodman's Charlie Meadows would call "the life of the mind." This is what makes Naked Lunch so ripe for analysis, and what makes it relevant to this day.
