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Somehow Titane both perfectly meets and completely subverts expectations. The premise alone can tell you we're about to travel into some Cronenberg-type territory and boy does it deliver. Anyone familiar with Ducournau's first film Raw already know her penchant highly realistic and confrontational violence - Titane is no exception. The walkouts in my theatre were a strong indicator of how not-for-everyone this is. This movie is off the chain. It's a brutal patchwork of metal, blood, oil and sweat that contains some of the more bonkers scenes in recent memory. For horror fans looking for an effed-up-psycho-sexual-mechanized-nightmare-freakout, you've come to the right place.

What took me by surprise was how tender it also was. Rouselle and Lindon have a beautiful dynamic that develops so subtly and naturally that, to my total surprise, I was nearly moved to tears in the second half of the film.

Titane has much more to offer than you'd initially expect. Yes, it primarily functions as nightmare cyber-body-horror, but beneath all the candy paint and viscera is a shockingly touching and sensitive exploration of parenthood and identity. Julia Decournau has proved with Titane that not only is she here to stay, but that she's currently one of the most twisted, interesting and singularly creative directors.

This new offering feels less like a comedy special and more like a fully realized work of art that stands as the culmination of an entire career. It's sensitive and introspective and, yes, also really funny. Here, we see Bo at such a level of vulnerability and chest-tightening honesty, that the urge to jump through the screen and comfort him becomes overwhelming.

He's made his name over the past decade as a sharp-witted and poignant artist - a multitalented wunderkind with a vision far greater than that of a simple comedian. There are, however, demons under the surface. His past material - chock full of sardonic observation and wry self-awareness - has always been tinged with an air of melancholy. This was most glaringly apparent in final minutes of his last Netflix special Make Happy in which we're given a glimpse into who Bo Burnham is. What we find is deeply lost and troubled man who has dedicated himself to his craft in the hope that, by wholeheartedly giving himself to his audience, he may, through them, vicariously experience the joy he so desperately lacks. He's a modern day sad clown - a patchwork of acerbic gags and punchlines that, by their nature or perhaps by their design, cannot stop the underlying pain from seeping through. Inside is Bo's opportunity to further unpack these ideas on his own terms, in his own way. It's heartbreaking and hilarious and disarmingly beautiful.

Inside left me with the sobering realization that Bo may never return to performance after this; that this special was his swan song to a 14 year comedy career and, perhaps, an admission that a life lived on stage and in the spotlight may never be compatible with his own happiness. The selfish part of me hopes that this isn't the case, that this special marks the beginning of a new era of creation and expression for Bo. But deep down, I know that whatever Bo feels he must do to calm his inner disquiet and find the peace he's been searching for for so long - that's what I want him to do.

I just dearly hope he's happy.