What I’ve been noticing recently is that every pretentious film these days, in order to be regarded as ‘art house,’ must be intricately revolting—with lots of hideous full frontal nudity, boring porn flicks masked as “Victorian indecency” (sorry, Lanthimos, but Balabanov did it much earlier in his genius “On freaks and men”) and the Adorno-esque message about “successfully sublimated rage,” when the main character found Socialism, while puking oysters.
Nah, a big pass from me, despite the endless attempts to play camp and the cute monsters in the Professor’s garden (by the way, is it possible that Dafoe’s character ended up in this Steampunk London after he was consumed by the elements in The Eggers’s Lighthouse? Idk, maybe).
Tl;dr: Mary Shelley shrugs, Bulgakov’s “Heart of a Dog” needs a re-read
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