The Favourite

Intrigue covetously schemes while fortune miraculously hounds, the enthused generosity of an imposing caregiver insolently betrayed by dissolute ambition, a lack of opportunity blended with flogged discourtesy no doubt encouraging rank desperation, and as circumstances ameliorate postures tempt then beckon, botanical connaissance herbaceously imploring, as Yorgos Lanthimos embroils The Favourite.

An odd mixture of innocence and ferocity emerges, Queen Anne's (Olivia Colman) impulses potently distracted, Lady Sarah (Rachel Weisz) guiding them with discreet intention, Abigail Hill (Emma Stone) recognizing habitual laidback verse.

To rest at play with one's rabbits on sunny afternoons as thrush critique, bray, and scold, evenings, inopportune.

What's overlooked?

What seeks cultivation?

What is she ignoring?

Devoutly genuine dissimulation.

Dark motivations speculate as calculation courts royal favour.

Ingratiation husked, unsettled.

Gratification crudely extolling.

Nevertheless, The Favourite seems to dismiss base flattery to uphold honest criticism, even if Duchess Marlborough (Weisz) isn't contentiously disposed.

In fact she blends blunt observation with composed praise in skillfully threaded admonishing coddles, poignantly yet starkly depicting stately decorum, ironically lost in assured security.

She's heavily relied upon, and has become somewhat stern, Abigail cunningly enacting a playful counterpoint, the Queen falling for her carefree license.

Who's to say, honestly, some people flatter to solely promote themselves, others have an agenda, some seek altruistic goals, some like to revel but still respect their obligations.

And personalities change over time and in different situations (Foucauldian Power).

The Favourite excels at providing mischievous illustrations of the upper echelons at play, presenting political duty more like an afterthought, or something someone considers when writing about such things.

For subject matter this multifaceted I would have preferred a larger cast, even if it's primarily focused on Marlborough and Abigail's rivalry, its political backdrop still lacks exploratory depth, for which we aren't adroitly compensated.

Lanthimos has created his own otherworldly tragic comedic bizarro aesthetic that brightly resonates with thoughtful disillusion.

But as profoundly melancholic as The Favourite may be, it still promotes poised bewilderment.

I'm assuming it's safe to say, "goal, achieved."

Brashly articulated.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer

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.

The Lobster

The Lobster is one of those hilarious dark comedies that makes you feel guilty for laughing throughout and horrible for laughing afterwards.

Messed-up filmscape.

You aren't introduced to its fascist sociopolitical dynamics at first, so it seems like choice is still an option for the participants.

As it unreels, it becomes clear that extremists have held control for some time, and their authoritative micromanaging of human relationships have been fastidiously naturalized.

You hear this in the dialogue, the script, everything boiled down to awkward blunt expressions of confusion and loneliness, adding desperate depth to carnal credulity, the actors involved ironically bringing to life what might seem like decomposing prose with expertly timed inverse uniformity, their tones and gestures staggeringly reanimating, stitched together by the hauntingly observant narration.

Narration doesn't add much to some films, but it's a key component of The Lobster.

I don't want to give too much away, but from what I can tell, in The Lobster's realm you must have a partner and that partner must have the same idiosyncrasy as you (blindness, nosebleeds, ruthlessness, a nice smile).

If you can't find one within a specified time you're transformed into an animal of your choice.

If you escape to the woods to live with the loners you're hunted down like an animal.

It's like Yorgos Lanthimos imagined a world where you could not exist on your own, where you couldn't live without being part of a social order, and then fastened it with brutal punishments for refusing to obey, everyone under constant surveillance, totalitarian forms even encumbering those embodying subversive content (the loners) as they feel compelled to live their bohemian lives with a similar sense of strict gruelling cohesivity.

Mirrors and shadows.

Some of them actually find love which causes excruciating pain, the film consistently presenting interactions doomed to fail that seem so unfamiliar and bleak that the distance produces laughter until something excessively violent happens which isn't funny at all, like a discordant heavy metal xylophone solo broken up by machine gun fire.

The Lobster messes with your head to perhaps suggest that some folks just want to live alone, chill bachelors and bachelorettes, leave them be, let them do their own thing.

Coercively managing the social is the worst.

The expression of every thought.

Love truly blind.