Triangle of Sadness
As chapter one of Ruben Östlund’s new film Triangle of Sadness comes to an end, fashion models Carl (Harris Dickinson, The King’s Man) and Yaya (the late Charlbi Dean) have argued over who should pay for dinner, nearly broken up, and sweetly rekindled what appears to be a volatile yet loving relationship. It’s sharp-witted, well-acted, and has just enough enjoyable, small-scale cynicism to keep me interested in what might happen next.
Chapter two begins much the same way. Now on a luxury yacht that caters to the super rich, Carl and Yaya meet a cast of off-kilter characters who seem either ignorant or indifferent to the existence of those there to serve them. To these boisterous oligarchs, elderly arms dealers, tech geniuses, and trophy wives, the entire world is expected to cater to their whims, and, sadly, it almost always does.
Meanwhile, Carl and Yaya — who prove time and again that they aren’t exactly working class either — serve as a comparatively rational intermediary between the affluent guests, the crew of subservient Aryan-looking lackeys, and the purposefully unseen, non-white “help” that dwells below the decks. As chapter two proceeds, the cynicism of chapter one gives way to a irresistibly slow-build of class exegesis that suddenly and gloriously mutates into a mighty blunt instrument of economic critique that takes no prisoners and cold-heartedly rebuffs decency wherever possible.
How Östlund pulls this off is a master class in pacing, restraint, and the kind of irony found in Kurt Vonnegut stories. Östlund escalates his plot and themes so slowly and methodically that, even though you know something extraordinary is bound to eventually happen, what that may be and how it’s executed will still hit like a disgusting ton of bricks, despite all the clues left in plain sight. And even if you’re clever enough to see exactly what’s coming, you still won’t be prepared for the extent of it, I promise.
Through these half-hilarious, half-repulsive acts of human frailty, Östlund makes no secrets about his contempt for capitalism and those clinging to its dying carcass. In this regard, Triangle of Sadness serves as fair warning to the plutocratic owner class — along with their sycophantic servitors — that the centuries of environmental and human rights abuses they've carried out in the name of profit and control will be redressed with no shortage of celebration.
Strangely, though, I’ve noticed that much of the negative criticism levied at Triangle of Sadness focuses not on the film’s content or themes, but on Östlund’s plain-spoken approach to them. I will never understand or agree with the idea that a film can only be taken seriously if its allegory, symbolism, or metaphor are so esoteric that only stuffy educated types can recognize or understand their meaning. Why can’t a film be plain-spoken about its point? Why can’t it knock you over the head with ideas? To claim that Triangle of Sadness is unworthy because it too directly explains itself through words and actions is a form of classism and snobbery that I whole-heartedly reject.
And for the cherry on top, I'll go one further: I sincerely hope the gate-keeping asses of these elitist, party-line regurgitating dullards are forever haunted by the surly ghosts of Eugene Debs and Big Bill Haywood, and that their work is ignored, or, better, ridiculed.
Like Big Bill said, and Östlund echoes: If the workers are organized, all they have to do is put their hands in their pockets and they have got the capitalist class whipped.
Grade: A-minus. Rated R. Now playing at the Fine Arts Theatre
(Photo: Neon)
