Guys, trust Lanthimos to Always. Bring. IT. After a muted start, the Venice competition jolts awake with the electric shock that is Poor Things, the seventh feature by Greek maestro Yorgos Lanthimos. Sharp, wildly imaginative and jaw-droppingly naughty, the film takes you on a fantastical odyssey of female self-discovery and casually eviscerates the patriarchy in ways Barbie never managed to. Whether in terms of originality, ambition or artisanship, it’s far and away the best thing we’ve seen in competition so far.
Based on the eponymous novel published in 1992 by Alasdair Gray, Poor Things centers around Bella Baxter (Emma Stone), an odd young woman living under the care of Dr. Godwin Baxter (Willem Dafoe). When we meet the duo at their Victorian home in London, you can tell something’s off right away. Not only are there creatures with the heads of chickens and the feet of pigs running around, Bella walks and talks so funny it’s like she doesn’t belong in her own body. Soon we learn that Bella is an experimental child of Dr. Baxter when he took the dead body of a pregnant woman and surgically inserted the brain of the unborn baby into her head, before reanimating the mother-child hybrid. To monitor Bella’s development, Dr. Baxter enlists the help of a student Max (Ramy Youssef), who grows so fond of her that the two get engaged. Things take a left turn when sex-addicted lawyer Duncan (Mark Ruffalo) is asked to draw up the marriage contract but instead convinces Bella to go on a cruise to Lisbon with him.
So much happens in this 141-min film that the description above doesn’t even cover its first hour. Essentially the story chronicles – with wicked humor and a deceptive lightness of touch – a young woman’s struggle to come into her own while surrounded by men who feel entitled to control or own her. As Bella’s creator, Godwin (who she calls “God”) habitually dictates her dos and don’ts. When he has the idea of marrying her off to Max and subjecting her to an indefinite homebound life, it never even occurred to him to ask what she has to say about the arrangement. Max, the prototype of the enlightened male, has genuine affections for Bella and is ever conscious of not abusing his power over someone not yet able to express consent. But even he admits to feelings of jealousy and insecurity when Bella returns from her trip a mature, liberated woman.
Duncan covers the most ground as the dishonest-turned-possessive-turned-resentful lover. When he first encounters Bella, he doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of a girl in a woman’s body. As Bella grows mentally and begins to assert herself and point out the absurdity of his misogynistic worldview, he goes through a breakdown that’s brilliantly, hilariously observed. It also leads to a fourth male character, someone from Bella’s past who represents the most violent of abusers. What happens to him is too delicious to spoil.
Tony McNamara’s adapted screenplay packs much wit and depth in an adult fairytale of debauchery and perversion. And God bless Yorgos Lanthimos for bringing such a morbidly funny story so vividly to life. After the breakout success of The Favourite, one worries any arthouse director would settle and go mainstream. Well, not our Yorgos. The man who gave us Dogtooth and The Lobster among other weirdo classics, doubles down on the crazy factor and delivers arguably his most outrageous work yet. There’s a lot of in-your-face sex and nudity that will get the conservatives going, but to me it feels absolutely crucial to a story about ownership of the female body, about a woman’s choice. And the way Lanthimos can direct a scene that’s so strange, comical and subtly coded all at the same time is simply unmatched. His humor is not for the easily offended, but I find it so dry and sophisticated it’s to die for.
A group of exceptionally talented people helped realize his uncompromising vision. Production design by Shona Heath and James Price turns flights of fancy into stunning reality. Whether it’s the sky trains in Lisbon or the ancient walls of a Parisian brothel, the film’s backdrop looks gorgeous throughout and has that timeless, dreamy quality which gives the illusion that you’re trapped inside a mad storybook. Bella’s costumes designed by Holly Waddington characterize every stage of her development and are a kaleidoscope of yumminess. The translucent yellow poncho? The cool, futuristic bridal veil? The geometric sunglasses? Oscar nomination please. Robbie Ryan’s cinematography is reminiscent of his work on The Favourite but even more daring in its play with colors and framing. Then there’s the music composed by Jerskin Fendrix, a harp-based, beautifully wacky soundtrack that keeps veering from celestial harmony into discordant notes. It perfectly captures the tricky tone of the film and keeps you constantly on your toes.
The fabulous principal cast deserves all the praise they’ll inevitably get. Stone is fearless in her portrayal of a Frankensteinian girl searching for her identity. She has many lines to deliver that are not just absurd in how socially inappropriate they are, but often babbling, meaningless baby talk. Yet somehow she finds a way to say the wildest things with complete conviction. She also has the unusual task of playing someone from infancy through adolescence to adulthood while remaining physically unchanged, which she did and made it look so easy. All three supporting actors are superb. Ruffalo has the most to do and he ran away with it. A couple of the biggest laughs in the film involve his character’s manbaby meltdowns. That uncomfortably long pause before he finally admits defeat and whispers to Bella “Going to the casino”? Comedy gold.
As it stands on day 3 of the 80th Venice Film Festival, Poor Things towers over the rest of the competition. Second place I’d give to the Danish entry The Promised Land by Nikolaj Arcel, which screened last night. It’s an exquisitely rendered period piece that tells the bloody history of the Danish frontier. It’s an important story to tell and the filmmaking is impeccable, even if everything about the movie feels classical, old-fashioned.
