Can we finally call Yorgos Lanthimos’s bluff? We get it. You’re weird, you’re a feminist, you’re from Greece, mess interests you. But Lanthimos’s mess has never been the real, pockmarked, funky mess we see in Luis Buñuel, Catherine Breillat, Amos Poe, or Roman Polanski’s Bitter Moon (1992). Their works embody the grist and terror of life. Not Yorgos. His is a gentrified mess, a lifeless mess. A con, in other words.
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