Max has no moral qualms about airing what he assumes is a radical new form of (faked) entertainment. His only question is, “Can we get away with it?” But before he can make contact with Videodrome’s creators and cut a deal, it makes contact with him, inspiring vivid hallucinations, including Cronenberg’s masterstroke: television sets that bulge as if breathing and throb with veins, with protoplasmic screens that reach out from their cabinets to envelop or threaten Max. And the strange changes aren’t limited to Max’s home electronics: As his sense of reality becomes increasingly undermined, his belly develops a now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t vulvic slit, perfect for sliding in a hand, a videotape, even a gun. And to paraphrase Chekov, if you insert a gun into a vulvic gut slit in the second act . . .