The darker side of contemporary sick demented psycho comedy distraughtly horrifies in The Killing of a Sacred Deer, which is sort of like The Lobster's less nuanced emaciated bile, striving to absorb Yorgos Lanthimos's excess fat, while also producing gut wrenching nausea.
Whereas a lot of time and care went into crafting The Lobster's clever maniacal sociocultural criticisms, Sacred Deer is more like that other idea Lanthimos had while ingeniously writing, an idea that was perhaps quickly given the green light after the former's success to capitalize on wry sadistic sensation.
All the elements for a bit of intelligent woeful macabre distraction are there, and whether or not he was being intentionally banal is beside the point, it's just too content with suffering to offer any critical stoic insights, as if it wants to be masochistically beaten to the point of bitter exhaustion.
Even if you're being intentionally banal to comment on how disenchantment abounds, it doesn't change the fact that banality is banality and your audience is still stuck sitting through the entire practically pointless slide show.
Perhaps such endeavours do encourage creative growth, I'm in no position to measure such outcomes, but if it's not a way to make a trite point that metaphorically condemns a lack of bold fictional imagination, it's a lazy way to disinterestedly appear genuine for a mundane bit of excruciating tedium.
Why does the new Twin Peaks come to mind?
The Secret History of 'Twin Peaks' book is quite good.
Barry Keoghan (Marting) haphazardly steals the show and is given the best material, notably his interactions with infatuated Kim (Raffey Cassidy) and his ice cold emotionless curses.
Nevertheless, like Sophie's Choice if it had an aneurism, The Killing of a Sacred Deer begs brilliant qualifications but flops down more like an unappealing B-side, or Belle and Sebastian's How to Solve Our Human Problems (Part 1).
La Femme's Mystère?
Which means it is an excellent horror film.
Comedic tremors notwithstanding.
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