Poor Things

Last night I watched Poor Things, the newest film by Greek filmmaker Yorgos Lanthimos. So often when new movies are released they follow the same safe, formulaic patterns beaten into well-worn footpaths. It's hard to find anything weird or experimental, particularly when it comes to Hollywood. When movies like The Lighthouse, or Beau Is Afraid, or Everything Everywhere All At Once make it to the silver screen, I usually get giddy with excitement. This movie can be added to the company of those above. If you read nothing else, read this mini-review I wrote earlier in one of my scummy, villainous Discord hideouts:

It's a little bit Frankenstein a little bit Paradise Lost a little bit Metropolis and a lot of dark comedy. The acting is phenomenal, particularly Emma Stone's performance, but Mark Ruffalo and Willem Dafoe's, too. Honestly, I started shaky on Ruffalo, but really enjoyed his portrayal of the character after only a short time. The score is unique and arresting and perfectly suited to the film's absurdity. It lends an amazing atmosphere which is further complimented by the cinematography and the use of ultra-wide lenses and disorienting camerawork. The story is full of important philosophical questions around shame, sexuality, exploitation, toxic masculinity, women's liberation, capitalism, etc., and is a bizarre sort of 'coming of age' tale with Emma Stone's character being perhaps one of the most badass Buddhamind bitches I've ever seen. 

Note that it is extremely sexually graphic, so if watching soft-core porn of Emma Stone isn't your thing, then you should probably skip it. Personally, I am a theater-boner enthusiast following in the long tradition established by Paul Reubens and most recently reprised by Republican senator Lauren Bobert.

The film, at around 2.5 hours in length, inexplicably left me wanting more. When the credits rolled I felt legitimate sadness that the ride was over. Nearly everything about the film is wonderful: the acting, the casting, the costume design, the sound, the sets, the music, the story, the themes. It is a remarkable and memorable film that invites repeated viewings. As mentioned earlier, the wide-angle lenses create a sense of kaleidoscopic disorientation and vastness that seem to puff the world out at the edges. Closeups of Emma Stone are mesmerizing. After watching Poor Things I couldn't help but feel it reminded me of something. Only after waking up this morning did I remember how I felt when watching Tim Burton's Beetlejuice as a child. The world was so strange and engrossing. Growing up I watched the film countless times. Vivid memories return of the distinct smell of the warm insides of the VCR as the cassette rewinded. Both films have eccentric characters, outlandish costumes, unusual creatures and bizarre happenings.

But back to Poor Things. A particular scene stands out in my mind, starring the very talented and very flexible Kathryn Hunter whom I'd first seen in the opening of Joel Coen's The Tragedy of Macbeth. In Lanthimos' film she is an aged brothel owner possessing sagely wisdoms and a violent love of lobes. She skillfully dispenses these insights and encourages our heroine to endure her hardships despite the struggle, revealing a precious truth: if one does not experience all the colors and shades of her life - the hopeless and the exalted, the miserable and the ecstatic - how can one really know anything? How can one discover truth or make meaning? Suffering, if nothing else, is instructive. 

This lesson is rattling around my head from the recent Vipassana retreat. The teacher, S.N. Goenka, repeatedly reminded us that without pain, without the body clamoring for escape, without confronting intense sensation, there is no true chance for metamorphosis. Imagine for a second a stringed instrument, perhaps an acoustic guitar. In order for it to make a sound, the strings need to be taught. Strumming a series of limp strings will only generate at best a sad metallic swishing sound. Once the strings are tightly pulled, however, suddenly something magical happens: a series of notes ring out. But it isn't enough to simply strike a bunch of open strings. Doing so only creates a discordant sound lacking harmony. Instead one must apply pressure to the strings - the right amount of pressure in the right place - to produce a euphonic sonorous sound. One must learn where to place their fingers along the guitar's neck to summon the desired vibration and bring it into existence. So too our bodies must be taught. We must sense with our higher selves in order to learn where to apply the right pressure to make those beautiful karmic melodies we want to hear. In time we must realize we are to play jazz, to improvise as best we can, and remember not to bludgeon ourselves for our false notes nor crave the rapture of grand rhapsodies. 

I know I drifted away from the half-assed movie review. That's fine. We eliminate the possibility of further spoilers this way. Go see the movie. It's fucking good. 

If you don't like it, fuck a seagull or become a goat.