Qrobur

Is it a satire? Is it a drama? Is it a comedy? No, it's an earthbound turkey.

Yorgos Lanthimos appears to be a director in the mould of Roy Andersson, that is, somebody who has mistaken miserabilist absurdism for profundity and who literally projects it at us on the narcissistic assumption that we all think the same. Fortunately, most of us do not.

'The Lobster' is a failure for a number of reasons. First, a satire is supposed to point out the absurdity of a state of affairs by depicting it absurdly but recognisably. However, nowhere in this film, except towards the very end, is there a relationship that is at all recognisable, absurdly contorted or otherwise. If 'The Lobster' is a satire, it misses its mark because it's not clear at what mark it aims. Secondly, is it a comedy? If you conceive of a comedy as something that makes you laugh, chuckle, smile or even is a little amusing, 'The Lobster' is not a comedy. There is a complete dearth of humour in this film; black, dark, twisted, absurd or any other kind. Thirdly, is it a drama? Well maybe, in a thin, unsatisfying manner. Of course, this film has no substantial dénouement so I'd argue it's not a drama. 'The Lobster' has another debilitating flaw. It appears to be two films and it's hard to avoid the impression the second half has been tacked onto the first because the director and writers had little idea what to do with the original material.

So, what is 'The Lobster'? In passing, there is some decent cinematography and Ireland is made to look sternly beautiful on these occasions. However, above all what 'The Lobster' is, is absurd. Regrettably, this isn't the kind of absurdity that has something to say about the human condition. It's the kind of absurdity that is preposterous and uninteresting.

I think it's absurd this film was made. It appears to be the product of an immature mind with an inchoate understanding of human relationships. The result is dismally boring.

In 1877 John Ruskin famously said of a painting by James Whistler that he was "flinging a pot of paint in the public's face" when dismissing it as not being art.

My reaction to this film is quite similar. Yes, it's a film in the sense that it's a sequence of scenes intended to be viewed on a screen. Also, I suppose Roy Andersson believes he's making an important point about something - the banality of Man's inhumanity to Man, perhaps - with it. However, the idea that a running joke that is not funny, is itself funny, is not funny; or, at least, it's not funny in Andersson's hands. This nominally absurdist film is turgid, mirthless and all but featureless. It's extremely slow-paced, deliberately so.

Consequently, it seems to me that Andersson has made a kind of "anti-film" as a metaphor for people's lack of empathy for each other. In doing so, he has completely defeated his own purpose as it's likely none but a very small minority of people could find much of worth in such a boring (non-)film.

Almost as if Andersson lost conviction in his approach, towards the end of this assemblage of flat scenes there is a pair that, although shot in the same low-key style, are nasty. It's hard to avoid the impression that Andersson thought he had better do something unsubtle to make his audience understand that he appears to draw some moral equivalence between an everyday lack of empathy between people and more heinous acts.

So we come back to Ruskin; whatever this effort is, I don't think it's a film. Does it have some other importance? I don't think so.

I suppose there are some who will watch this film and, being naïve, will be shocked by the sado-masochistic nature of the relationships it depicts into reaching for fanciful explanations of the story. If so, this would do no more than betray their lack of familiarity with those unusual, but not particularly rare, traits.

To be clear; this is not the greatly symbolic film some ill-conceived reviews would have you believe. Instead, it's a fairly straightforward effort about a person with masochistic tendencies. Other than the fact that this person lives with her domineering, wheedling mother, we are told nothing of the life that led her to develop these tendencies, so we are left simply to observe the consequences of her having them. Those consequences range from somewhat interesting, particularly in the first part of the film, to mildly disturbing.

The saving grace of the film is Isabelle Huppert's performance as Erika Kohut, ably supported by Annie Girardot as her mother. Unfortunately, the role of Walter Klemmer, unconvincingly written as it is, cannot be saved by Benoît Magimel and constitutes the film's major defect.

If you're looking for some metaphysical profundity about the human condition or a cutting allegory about society, look elsewhere. This is a sometimes clumsy depiction of masochism and particularly of sadism partially, but not wholly redeemed, by some fine acting.