REVIEW: The Lobster

Dry humor is, generally speaking, a really tricky beast to pin down. I don't like to use the phrase "hit or miss" when describing my preferences, since I usually like to fall back on some kind of gold standard, but dry humor is just one of those things that, for me, can only go one of two ways. Either it works or it doesn't; maybe I'll still be able to appreciate what the creator was going for, but it's definitely far from a sure thing for me. Films that take this approach with their tone often run the risk of feeling as though they're trying too hard, as though everyone involved isn't confident enough to find their own, properly-weird kind of weirdness to make it all come together. It requires the filmmaker to take advantage of every detail that defines film as a medium (from the cinematography, to the performances, to the sound design) to sell humor that's presented in an unconventional way; to make the unnatural feel natural in its own unnatural-ness. While it's definitely a genre with its own conventions, it can still be a challenge to do properly. For anyone seeking an example of this style of comedy done right, look no further than 2015's The Lobster.

Directed by The Killing of a Sacred Deer's Yorgos Lanthimos, The Lobster follows a recently-single man named David (played by Colin Farrell, as one of the few named characters in the film). After his wife leaves him for another man, David checks himself into a hotel in hopes of finding a new partner. As the hotel staff explain, David has 45 days to find someone new to fall in love with; if he fails, he will be turned into an animal of his choosing (he decides on a lobster, which the hotel staff assure him is an excellent choice). If this plot sounds the slightest bit absurd, that's because it is, and the entire movie reflects this in its every detail. There's an underlying surreality to everything that happens here, making it perhaps not the easiest watch for your casual moviegoer. I adored nearly everything about it, but this is definitely not the kind of film I would put on at a party (then again, I suppose that depends entirely on what kind of party we're talking about here). There's a lot to unpack, subtextually-speaking, which is one of the reasons I loved it so much.

The film acts as a biting bit of social satire, offering up an all-too-relevant critique of the way society treats the idea of being in a relationship. If you're an adult who hasn't found that special someone yet, you barely qualify as a human in the eyes of society. You're basically an animal. You might as well be dead. The Lobster confronts these ideas with no-holds-barred absurdity and the effect is as deeply resonant as it is frequently hilarious. Couples in the hotel aren't matched up by virtue of their ability to get along with one another or chemistry or anything that real, true romance is made out of. They're boiled (get it?) down to nothing more than a single, base characteristic; one man has a chronic limp, another woman suffers frequent nosebleeds, and John C. Reilly's character has been cursed with a lisp. The clock is ticking and these characteristics are all anyone really has to go off of; there's no natural love to be found among those within the hotel, it's all cold, emotionless, and born out of a desire to not be alone. To not be an animal.

Society dictates that the default end goal for a human being, the one true path to happiness and fulfillment in life, is to get married, settle down, and start a family. When prospective couples in the hotel are on their trial run to test for compatibility, they may be assigned designated children to help resolve any conflicts that arise. This is the level of absurdist dystopia Lanthimos builds for us, a world where children are accessories and relationships exist purely to fulfill a need for sex and security. It isn't so much about finding someone who truly loves and understands you as it is about having a warm body next to yours when you sleep, or an extra pair of arms to help you out if you happen to choke on a bit of food. It's been said that love and death are the two facts of life which dictate our every desire, and The Lobster takes this idea to its logical, sterile, comical extreme.

We often lie to ourselves and others in order to avoid ending up alone (or to avoid ending up with who we think of as the wrong person). There are times throughout the film where David passes up what might be legitimate shots at happiness and fulfillment, instead choosing to focus on pointless minutiae like hairstyles and accents. It's an uncompromising look at the 21st-century dating scene brought to us by apps like Tinder, where any and all personality and nuance is removed from the experience of finding a mate. We see other characters, motivated by fear of ending up alone and becoming an animal, make harsh compromises to ensure they end up with someone, anyone, it doesn't matter who. A very nice widow (played by Ashley Jensen) feels so insecure about her age, she outright offers her body up to David in the hopes that a series of sexual favors between strangers will somehow lead to a relationship. We also see one of David's few friends at the hotel (Ben Whishaw) begin mutilating himself, smashing his face into hard surfaces in order to induce nosebleeds, all so that he can have something in common with his chosen partner; something that makes them "compatible".

For as bad as things are in the hotel, we're also introduced to a colony of loners; hotel guests who failed to find anyone to pair up with and, rather than accept their fate as an animal, decided to flee and establish a commune in the nearby woods. These characters are hunted like sport by the hotel guests (each loner they tranquilize earns them an extra day to find a mate), so we're initially meant to see them as the sympathetic underdogs when compared to the oppressive, conformist horrors that lurk within the hotel. But we soon come to discover that this order of loners has their own set of rules and mores that must be followed at all times; I don't want to spoil anything, but it ends up being a very Fox and the Grapes type scenario. Truthfully, this element exhibits my only real gripe with this film, as it cleanly divides the narrative into two distinct halves, with the majority of interesting story beats and ideas residing in the first half.

Despite this feeling of unevenness, the film still manages to make you care a great deal about these characters. A true testament to both the actors and the writing, as everyone here is giving an intentionally awkward, emotionless performance. They all act like robotic, repressed individuals; you get the impression that everyone is screaming internally, desperate to express some form of genuine emotion without fear of being shunned by those around them. Like I said before, an intentionally awkward tone such as this requires a filmmaker to take advantage of every facet of film as a medium in order to truly leave a bold impression. The cinematography is flat and static, which would be a problem in just about any other movie, but here it compliments the overall tone and atmosphere. We're given a series of beautiful, but awkward shots that linger for just a little too long, at some points giving off some distinct The Shining vibes (which, despite this not being a horror film in the traditional sense, adds an exquisite kind of flair to the overall look of the film).

The soundtrack (care of Johnnie Burn) also adds to the atmosphere, though I wouldn't be surprised if this aspect was a bit more hit or miss with some viewers. It's droning and repetitive, but it also occasionally escalates to something that's downright cacophonous, both punctuating the more dramatic moments and adding a lovely comedic flair to some of the more awkward bits (such as a positively hilarious fistfight out on the hotel's shooting range). All of the awkward, stilted, inhuman moments merely serve to make the few instances of genuine love, romance, and emotion shine all the brighter. It all comes together, bolstering the underlying social commentary and wrapping everything up in a charming, sorrowful, darkly-hilarious package; many will be tempted to write The Lobster off as "weird" and call it a day, but I promise that you'd be doing yourself a disservice to stop there.

The Lobster is a true work of art, through and through. Though some scenes linger on a bit longer than they might need to and the more interesting story beats take place within the first two acts, it's still a fantastically imaginative look at one of the most frequently taken-for-granted aspects of the human experience. Love plays a part in all of our lives (whether we want to admit it or not), hence why this is a film with something to offer for everyone. If you've ever been uncomfortably single or felt disillusioned by the notion of modern love, you owe it to yourself to give The Lobster a watch. It's a film that upholds the idea that love is blind, despite existing in a cynical, material world. If you haven't found the one, there's nothing wrong with you. Though society says otherwise, you are not an animal; and even if you were, it would still be better than the alternative.