Triangle of Sadness: The Rich Get Filthy

 

TRIANGLE OF SADNESS (2022)

Directed by Ruben Östlund 

Lionsgate, 147 minutes, R (language, adult situations, vomiting)

★★★★

 

 

 

Triangle of Sadness won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, but flew under the radar screen in the United States for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that it was a foreign-made film with no recognizable lead stars. It was directed by Ruben Östlund, who gave us Force Majeure, which divided film fans into two distinct camps: Those who loved it and those who were bored out of their skulls. (I pitched my tent with those in the second group.)

 

Like Force Majeure, Triangle of Sadness is languidly paced and doesn't encourage sympathy for those in the lead roles. It also takes its time working out key relationships. Luckily it mutates into a uniquely crafted and twisted pastiche of The Devil Wears Prada, Ship of Fools, and Swept Away (The 1974 Lena Wertmuller version, not the dreadful 2002 Madonna remake.)

 

That triple comparison also indicates that Triangle of Sadness is divided into three distinct parts. “Carl and Yaya” is fashion industry beefcake with a bevy of bare-chested men in low-slung pants traipsing back and forth with intermittent cheesy smiles and scowls. Each seeks to be chosen to be one of those faces you see in ads for ridiculously priced designer jeans. (The auditions also reveal the secret of the film’s title.) We eventually notice the camera lingering on one hunky guy, Carl (Harris Dickinson). We later see him in a posh restaurant with another icon, Yaya (Charlbri Dean Kriek), an “influencer.” Their discussion and bickering over who should pay the bill is insipid and freighted with airheaded manipulation. Who are they to each other?

 

In “The Yacht,” we find out that they are the “Beautiful Couple” du jour. Yaya has wrangled free fare aboard a luxury cruise in exchange for what we assume is a tit-for-tat promise to blog about the glories of the ship, the gourmet food, and the crackerjack staff catering to passenger dreams and whims. One reviewer called it a tale of the “have-nots and the have-yachts,” a terrific line that’s literally on the money. The passengers are filthy rich, insufferable, clueless, and thoroughly insensitive to those who serve them. Even several of the crew, especially head of staff Paula (Vicki Berlin), buy into the charade as if it’s the natural order of things. That’s not the case below decks whose working class and immigrant staff echo the stratification dynamics some might recall from Titanic. Östlund sharpened his critique by casting Woody Harrelson in an extended cameo role as the captain, a drunkard and a soon-to-be uncloseted communist. If that surprises, wait until you find out the vocations of some of travelers when they’re not cavorting like strutting peacocks.  

 

An unexpected event sinks the ship, the prelude to “The Island” with its Biblical “the last shall be first” reversal of fortune. Only a few make it to shore, but what does a pretty boy, a pirate, a fluffheaded influencer, a rah-rah gal, and a handful of toffs know about finding water, catching fish, building a fire, or improvising shelter? Power shifts to Abigail (Dolly de Leon), whose shipboard duty was toilets manager.

 

What exactly is Triangle of Sadness? A black comedy? A polemic? A drama? A satire? All of the above, though you could bet a few more chips on satire. Östlund clearly has little sympathy for the heartless monied classes, but they’re such a soft target that he realized more complexity was needed to underscore their social parasitism. Those touches redeem the meandering part one of the film.

 

Strong performances carry the film. Numerous reviewers singled out Kriek for praise, in part because she tragically died of sepsis at just 32. She was an intriguing figure, lovely in an emaciated way with a slightly askew face that made her stand out in a lineup of perfectly-featured interchangeables. She nailed her role as a simpering, privileged brat. For me, though, Dolly de Leon stole the acting crown. At age 54, she was the anti-Yaya, a fading flower and slightly plump, but also the embodiment of how toughness trumps ephemeral beauty.

 

Triangle of Sadness comes to a surprising and ambiguous ending. It is prefigured by a “why didn’t anyone think of this before?” discovery. We know the answer, but it still packs a thudding wallop. It’s also in keeping with Östlund’s preference for making points, not la-de-da saccharine endings.

 

Rob Weir