Revisiting the erotic thriller.  By Neda Ravandi Illustration by Justin Chen In July I was obsessed with James Spader. Houston heat meant long, sun-soaked afternoons, which I’d spend on my bed, laptop open to a sketchy movie site when the humidity got too unbearable for tanning by the pool. So, my Halloween began in the summer, when I watched David Cronenberg’s Crash,  a decision prompted not by an interest in cars or stomach-churning violence, but more so James Spader. After