Directed by Yorgos Lanthimos | Written by Lanthimos and Efthimis Filippou | 164 min | ▲▲▲▲△ | Crave
A bit of a surprise when it was first announced, Kinds of Kindness comes hot on the heels of the Greek auteur Lanthimos’ impressive Poor Things, which earned Emma Stone her second Oscar win. This new movie is distinguished by Lanthimos’ script collaborator — Efthimis Filippou worked on the more absurdist, peculiar work earlier in his career; Dogtooth, Alps, The Lobster, and The Killing of a Sacred Deer. This effort feels of a kind with some of those, rather than the recent The Favourite and Poor Things.
Kinds of Kindness is an anthological triptych with a central stable of actors playing different roles in each of the three entries. “The Death of R.M.F.” centres on Jesse Plemons as Robert Fletcher, who works at a construction company in New Orleans. His boss, Raymond (Willem Dafoe), has for years controlled almost every aspect of Robert’s life, from his choice of partner (Hong Chao) to what he eats, what he wears, and whether he has children. When Raymond finally puts his foot down over doing something that could cause another man’s death, he’s immediately fired, sending him into a spiral of uncertainty and anxiety around decision making.
This segment may be the funniest of the three. Plemons (who won the acting award at Cannes for his work here) is fantastic in his desperation — reminding me more than a little of William H Macy in Fargo. He’s in over his head, willing to go to absurd lengths to get back into Raymond’s good books. Also on board here, and in the subsequent two entries: Margaret Qualley, Mamoudou Athie, Joe Alwyn, and Yorgos Stefanakos, who features as supporting character R.M.F. in each portion of the movie and doesn’t have a line.
If this segment is taking shots at ideas of American class, the pursuit of wealth and the hypocrisy of freedom in a capitalist society. It lines up with Sacred Deer‘s critique of exclusive medical systems and The Lobster‘s look askance at European art snobs.
The second segment, “R.M.F. is Flying,” is maybe the one I was least engaged by, but it’s still taking you to unpredictable places. Plemons this time is Daniel, a police officer, whose wife, Liz (Stone), is a marine biologist who’s been lost while on a research trip. She returns, but she’s changed — at least in Daniel’s eyes. Her taste in food has shifted and her shoes don’t fit. Daniel is convinced she’s an imposter, much to the concern of his friends and colleagues.
What I probably enjoyed most here was the almost throwaway detail that Daniel and Liz swing with pals Neil and Martha (Athie and Qualley), they’ve even shot videos in bed together. This segment effectively skewers the American ideal of suburban, married bliss. It could’ve been a bit more concise, but otherwise, bravo.
The third segment is called “R.M.F. Eats a Sandwich,” and it gives Stone the lead, which she runs with. She’s Emily, estranged from her husband (Alwyn) and daughter because she’s part of a sex cult, led by Omi (Dafoe). These people are obsessed with cleanliness, purity, and water. Emily’s goal is to find a woman who’s been prophesized to bring the dead back to life, which requires a lot of interviewing and testing of possible candidates: they’ve got to be one of a twin, and their sibling has to be dead.
This final story is particularly and wonderfully outrageous. Stone sports a burgundy pantsuit throughout and drives a purple Dodge Challenger.
Not since The Bandit’s Trans Am has a car been so emblematic of the person driving it in a movie — she’s tears around in this beast, which ends up saying a lot about her sublimated rage and mission determination in the face of abandoning her little girl.
This part of the movie takes shots at the freaky side of American society, the one that cultivates so many fringe weirdos, religious fanatics, and gun nuts.
As in Sacred Deer, the Kubrick affection is outsized in the camera movements and peculiar music stings, though you could also connect threads to the Tarantino of Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown, though less filtered through exploitation cinema of the 1970s. It’s there in a certain matter-of-factness in the performances. I loved all of that, the ripples of discomfort through the audience being held at an emotional distance but witness to some truly weird shit. It strikes me that an American filmmaker would be wildly unlikely to frame the undercurrent of national preoccupations the way this Greek filmmaking team does with such serious aplomb.
It’s certainly not an easy watch, but in the hours afterward I’ve been turning it all over in my head. Now I want to go again and bring some friends, to see what they make of the unique madness on display. I can’t think of better counter programming between summer blockbusters.
