Contagion is a bare beneficence of stateless zero-sum promiscuity, a failure, like a short crushing walk. Its most surprising notion is not, in fact, an illness over-under, but that its soft colligative guts are rather the most oblivious towards industrial hyperreality, to a pernicious and uplifting subscript; its deaths are like one great big pasted, deadpan notice, sordid yet self-explanatory, like treating a dog cage or kennel through its bars like a looking glass. Contagion is the first time a film has ever been both pre-instructive but post-operational; it is responsible for enshrining psychotropic reality, pure selfless medicalism, at the small basal cost of event financing, of logging it off the list, which is to say of marking both ends of the ideological page. Its dialogue drops out like a heat-sensor, and its cinematography—if this, conversely, were even an attributable domain to its search—is like an endoscopic plug for trace-marking or -cutting, having the perspective of an anxious mole-rat.
Contagion is caught between slander or slur, burning or braying, splotchy or blushing. Judd Law announces the loathsome solicitation of the film from purely communicative, Greco-anarchic thrift into psychotic escapism, into nihilitative spillage—just, sick hatred, leaden and opaque, dished in demilitarized equivalents, casually and ineptly. Its quite cordial yet, ignominious Phallus, abruptly retracts where, curiously, would be exactly expected its acting. Its decay is poor, crashing, as graceless as eclectic pocket violence, abandoning thusly its ideological imprimatur to squandered space, to the free-reign commensuration of dark matter and detritus. And it ends on the worst possible note ever was struck: chemistry equal parts expectant yet unimpressed, naturalized yet onerous, mulishly impinged yet industrially cathected, and emotionally unlicensed yet Pollyanna.