The Killing of a Sacred Deer

This has some of the most messed-up stuff I’ve ever laughed at in a film. “Deer”’s dialogue reads as if David Lynch has Aspergers and a taste for acid; I nearly spat out my drink when an otherwise early normal dinner conversation takes a grossly inappropriate turn I don’t dare spoil. It may as well serve as warning for the supremely messed-up imagery down the line, made even more chilling by the film’s stubborn insistence that everyone maintain a detached mannerism about them. It’s a film maybe TOO in love with channeling things through metaphor, though it’s otherwise wonderfully psychotic.

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