REVIEW: The Favourite

It may be jumping the gun to say something like "Yorgos Lanthimos is one of my all-time favorite filmmakers" after only seeing two of his films, but... here we are. While I still have yet to see The Killing of a Sacred Deer or Dogtooth (they're on the list, alongside the rest of his filmography, I promise), The Lobster put him on my radar in a big way. When I heard that he would be directing The Favourite, I leapt at the opportunity to see one of his films in theaters. Again, it may be premature to say that he is one of my favorite filmmakers of all time (and indeed, one of the finest filmmakers working today), but saying the man is two for two in my books would be an understatement. I was excited to see what he had to offer with The Favourite and left the theater not only satisfied, but fairly confident that I had just seen the best film of 2018.

Set during the War of Spanish Succession right around the start of the 18th century, the film focuses on the tumultuous relationship between Queen Anne (Olivia Coleman) and her close adviser/secret lover, Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlboro (Rachel Weisz). Ill and eccentric after a life of tragedy, Anne cares little for governing or warfare, delegating the majority of her decision-making to Sarah (much to the dismay of Earl Robert Harley (Nicolas Hoult) and his fellow Tories in Parliament). This all changes with the arrival of Abigail Hill (Emma Stone), a former lady of status and Sarah's younger cousin. Hoping that her connection to Sarah will allow her to gradually re-build her social standing, Abigail eventually begins to usurp her cousin's role as the Queen's favourite. What follows is a brutal, hilarious ballet of deception, blackmail, and wit as the two women vie for the affections of the ailing Queen (and all the privileges that come with it).

The most immediately striking thing about this film has got to be the performances. Everyone in the supporting cast does a fine job (shout-out to Horatio, the fastest duck in the city), but the main trio of women absolutely make this film. Olivia Coleman gives one of the best performances of the year as Queen Anne, playing the sickly monarch in a way that's as hilarious as it is multifaceted. She's damaged and crazy and unpredictable, but you never get the impression that she's nothing more than a punchline. She's very much an active player in the conflict between Abigail and Sarah, even if it doesn't appear as such at first glance. She's a character who could have been little more than a plot device, a living maguffin for Stone and Weisz to quarrel over and manipulate, but Coleman imbues her with a true sense of pathos; we get occasional glimpses into her world, revealing her to be a flawed, pitiable person who's suffered repeated and tremendous loss in her time as Queen. There's a strong undercurrent of mockery directed at aristocracy and the ruling class, but Anne is still primarily painted as a truly sympathetic character. "The Queen is crazy" isn't the fullest extent of the joke, as The Favourite goes for something a little more conceptually ambitious in how it deals with conflict and drama.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the relationship between Abigail and Sarah. I'm a big fan of movies that subvert audience expectations, when done properly. It's a tricky business to get right, and I always see people defending poor examples of subversion by insisting naysayers only want movies to break the mold in ways that they were already expecting (and therefore comfortable with). In reality, it's far from being so simple. Anyone can do something unexpected; I could write the rest of this Review in Mandarin, because surely you wouldn't normally expect that to happen, but doing so wouldn't give my work an inherent value for that reason alone. Well-crafted subversions of audience expectations serve to enhance the story, taking things in a new and exciting direction that adds a new dimension to the events playing out on-screen. This is something screenwriters Deborah Davis and Tony McNamara understood when crafting the characters that Stone and Weisz brought to life.

When we're introduced to Emma Stone's Abigail, she's a polite and filthy young girl, having just been shoved out of a moving carriage into the mud. It's a sharp contrast to Weisz's Lady Sarah; cold, manipulative, and at times downright cruel in her indifference towards the Queen's problems. It establishes a clear protagonist/antagonist situation with Queen Anne stuck in the middle. Abigail has been used and abused her entire life, robbed of her birthright and reduced to working as a scullery maid. She's a humble yet ambitious young lady who's found herself in a particularly low place in life through no fault of her own, so she's easy to root for at first. Meanwhile, Sarah enacts her will on the country by whispering in the Queen's ear and slipping into her bedchamber behind her husband's back, seemingly looking out for none but her own interests. At first glance, it all appears very cut and dry, but that's where the truly gripping elements of the plot come into play.

As the story progresses, we notice a gradual shift in character dynamics as more and more comes to light. We learn that, although she exploits her position as the Queen's favourite for personal gain, Sarah truly does care for Anne, both as a friend and lover. What on the surface appears to be a simple lust for power is eventually revealed to be a legitimate sense of duty; the Queen is far more concerned with playing with her rabbits than she is with waging war on the French, leaving Sarah with the responsibility of maintaining a nation. It's Sarah's dedication to the war effort that leaves her momentarily unavailable to stay by Anne's side, allowing Abigail the chance she needs to hook her claws into the sad and lonely Queen. What first appeared to be the story of an underdog hoping to improve her station in life soon becomes the tale of a malicious schemer, drunk on power and status, eventually resorting to truly abominable actions to ensure her position is secured. We really get to see a 360 view of this seemingly straightforward conflict, with first impressions dissolving before our very eyes as we learn more and more about who these characters actually are.

Of course, the actors aren't the only element of this film worth praising. As with The Lobster, Lanthimos exhibits his truly distinctive directorial eye, creating a style that compliments both the dry, comedic elements and the more serious, dramatic elements of this story. From a stylistic standpoint, the film is very unique without feeling as though it's trying too hard to stand out from the crowd. There's a real sense of creative confidence at play here; nothing is presented the way it is for a purely superficial reason, and you never lose the feeling that Lanthimos (along with cinematographer, Robbie Ryan) knew exactly what he was doing with every scene and shot.

The whole thing is shot on-location at Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, England, so nothing feels like a set. The spaces these characters inhabit feel appropriately lived-in, lending the whole thing a real air of authenticity (even though the actual historical accuracy of the plot is questionable at best). I admittedly found myself getting a lay of the land as the film went on, becoming very familiar with spaces such as the Queen's bedroom and the lush, well-kept grounds. The strong reliance on naturalistic lighting and use of classical music only adds to the authenticity, and that atmosphere of historical realism contrasts wonderfully with the dry, absurdist humor at play. It's a relationship summed up in a visual sense through the film's occasional use of a fish-eye lens, moving away from the many spacious wide-shots the film is littered with and portraying things from a warped, exaggerated perspective. It's like a metaphor for the presentation of the film as a whole; aesthetically, this is but one or two degrees away from your standard period drama, yet the dry sense of humor and use of visual comedy keep things skewed just enough to stand out from the herd, at least on a subconscious level.

Overall, I don't really have anything remotely negative to say about The Favourite. It's a hilarious comedy, a compelling drama, and a gorgeously-shot period piece all in one. Brought to life by a remarkably talented cast of actors all giving award-worthy performances and helmed by one of the most unique and talented directors working today, I can't very well think of a reason not to recommend this to just about anyone. I suppose, as with The Lobster, the unorthodox presentation may at times seem intimidating to those in search of something more by-the-numbers, but like The Lobster, I feel this is absolutely a film worth engaging with, even if it's outside of your typical comfort zone. I'd go as far to say it's a modern classic and absolutely can't recommend it enough, go check it out.

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.