Hope you all had a nice Halloween. Now that summer is firmly in the rearview mirror, the crop of awards-worthy films are ready to be reaped. After a rather dismal summer I am glad to get ready for something fresh this season. Comedy has been hard to come by, even one as intelligent as the one I just saw. Satires are even rarer; need only to read my review of Don’t Look Up. America doesn’t know how to make fun of itself as much anymore. But thanks to our European brethren we don’t have to.
Enter Swedish writer/director Ruben Öslund, who even after two films has become a master at skewering societal norms. He first burst onto the scene with Force Majeure, a charming tale of a family on a ski trip in the French Alps when a potentially devastating avalanche happens. The father makes a selfish decision and the family has to deal with the aftermath. It was erroneously remade as Downfall years later. Next Öslund made The Square, a takedown of the art world. A curator played by Claes Bang navigates personal and professional breakdowns while working on a new exhibit. This netted the director his first Palme d’Or from Cannes in 2017.
Now he has gone and made his most ambitious project yet with Triangle of Sadness. Explaining the plot is a little hard to do without spoiling much of the surprise, but I will attempt. The film is split into three parts: the first being our main characters Carl and Yaya. Two self-centered and narcissistic models, these two are perfectly toxic to one another. Carl, with his insecurities, takes out his frustration on Yaya while she manipulates him. Unlike George and Martha, these two lack the depth to even know or care about Virginia Woolf.
Cut to later when we find them on a yacht in Greece, along with a whole new group of shallow people. For fans of The White Lotus you are in for a treat. We encounter a Russian businessman who sells fertilizer, although he regals this fact in more vulgar terms. An elderly British couple reveal how their fortune came about in shocking fashion. A woman who claims to be on the side of the staff constantly puts them in awkward positions where a Yes or No answer doesn’t suffice.
All would seem well and good as a critique of the one percent. But Öslund doesn’t just stop there. In a scene-stealing role Woody Harrelson is our captain who hides himself away in his cabin for most of the trip. His distain for the guests barely masked by polite geniality. In one of the best scenes the Captain and the Russian play drinking games while needling each other with quotes from Ronald Reagan and Vladimir Lenin. Only it isn’t the one you suspect revering whom.
Ruben’s razor-sharp wit leaves no person untouched, even the crew. While the wait staff have pow-wows and hobnob with the esteemed guests, the cleaning crew are slated as third class on the vessel. This isn’t your typical Upstairs Downstairs affair. Through subtle interactions, a cohesive set of themes are woven that build up until the end.
I have refrained from speaking about the third act as the less you know the better. Much like 2019’s Parasite, the bottom drops out and plot spirals out as events unfold. One caveat I must mention is if you have a weak stomach, you might want to close your eyes when a bout of sea-sickness plagues the guests. As the film began though I found a good chuckle as a commentator spoke of dour brands like Balenciaga and happy brands like H&M and how they speak to their consumers. In fact, I heard a great deal of laughter throughout the theater which was welcome. I hope you decide to take this trip as I did; essential viewing.
