There's a delicious schadenfreude baked into "eat the rich" comedies like Parasite, White Lotus, Knives Out, and Hustlers. These productions contain elements of a crime drama, but their stories are told with a snarling smile that asks sharply where your allegiances lie. Do you really feel bad for the oblivious and affluent or the wicked and wealthy? Maybe we feel a pang of empathy, but by and large, we watch these movies to see rich people pay and to laugh — even cackle — at their pain. Now, this brand of scorching socio-economic satire gets fully into gross-out gags with the outrageous, ruthless, and hilarious Triangle of Sadness.
Swedish writer/director Ruben Östlund made his mark internationally with cerebral satires Force Majeure and The Square, which were set respectively in a ski resort and a pretentious museum. With Triangle of Sadness, he ushers audiences into another space of prestige and privilege: a luxury yacht, where the wealthy gather to sunbathe, feast, and hassle the help.
Aboard this stupendous ship, old money mingles with the 21st-century version of new money — meaning British arms dealers and a Russian "shit salesman" rub elbows with a pair of models/influencers who don't have money per se but enjoy the trappings of the high life (like a cruise!) in exchange for social media posts.
Regardless of their place in this haughty hierarchy, each is equally likely to prove a headache for the yacht's staff. Their demands shake practiced smiles, get one hot crew member canned, and pitch the rest into a required fun that looks anything but. In each instance, it's not enough for Östlund that we witness the composure of these workers quiver in glimpses. He plants us firmly with the putridly privileged, subjecting us to their self-important blather, petty complaints, and rancid excess.
Triangle of Sadness wants to make you squirm.
Östlund is no stranger to cringe comedy, smirkingly exposing humanity's pettiness through prolonged sequences of intense anxiety. In Triangle of Sadness, every act is new setting for second-hand embarrassment, stomach-churning comeuppance, or nerve-rattling uncertainty.
In the first act, Östlund follows the aforementioned models, Carl (Harris Dickinson) and Yaya (Charlbi Dean), as they argue doggedly over who should pay a hefty restaurant bill. Where other directors might cut from a particularly sharp barb or the moment the toxically masculine man sufficiently makes a fool of himself, Östlund stays with them. And so must we, playing silent, uneasy witness as they nakedly discuss touchy topics like money, gender, and the commerce of romance.
Act two plunks them on the yacht, where Östlund creates an obstacle course of unease from one set piece to the next. But the wildest part is the decadent captain's dinner, where the cream of this crop convenes to be served an array of delicacies and all the champagne their gullets can guzzle. However, a brewing storm sparks sea sickness, turning the fancy feast into a relentlessly disgusting vomit extravaganza.
Once more, Östlund is determined to give us no easy out. Food porn close-ups of delicate seafood dishes collide with the well-dressed guests projectile spewing bile, dyed vivid orange by too much caviar. It's like the high-brow version of a low-brow gag, but it never lets up. So, at first it's funny. Then, it grows repulsive. And every time you might think, "Well, now we'll move on," you'll be wrong.
Triangle of Sadness wallows in this wasteland of the wealthy, covered in puke, piss, and shit. Between the very realistic human waste, the rocking of the yacht, and the sheer length of time spent on this hellish night at sea, you may well feel ill yourself. But somehow the grossness circles back around to be freshly — well, maybe foully — funny.
And yet Östlund is not done with his seasick socialites or opportunities for us to revel in their misfortunes. In his final act, he pushes his "eat the rich" concept to new terrain. Dark humor abounds amid a frightful fish-out-of-water scenario, which strides assuredly and unnervingly toward a climax that is perfectly fitting in that it too won't let you off the hook.
Triangle of Sadness dazzles with outstanding performances.
As detestable as many of the characters on this cruise are, Östlund's clever casting assures you can't get enough of each and every member of his incredible ensemble. As a mercurial hunk, Harris Dickinson smolders and plays the fool in turn, giving a stab of humor with every expression of shock. The late Charlbi Dean is sensational as the resident influencer, probing for hidden depths behind the Instagram posturing. Zlatko Buriić is chaotically thrilling as an arrogant industrialist, while Sunnyi Melles is excruciatingly pitch-perfect as an absolute nightmare of a rich bitch with zero self-awareness and an unlimited capacity for the misery of others.
If you've ever had a service job, you may have a special appreciation for those who play the crew, from a sexy deckhand (Timoleon Gketsos) to the gratingly chipper manager (Vicki Berlin) who is a sharply rendered straight man to the drunken, bloviating American captain, brought to vivid life by a crooked-grinned Woody Harrelson. In the end, Triangle of Sadness would succeed or fail on the shoulders of Dolly De Leon, whose role is exhilarating in its surprise and nuanced electricity. Without spoilers, I'll say this: She's terrific and could well be a dark horse candidate come Oscar time.
Packed with performances that'll make you shudder, gross-out gags that spark guffaws, and an unflinchingly embrace of social awkwardness that'll have you cringing so much you might cramp, Triangle of Sadness is not just a viewing experience but a physical one. After that final breathless shot, rather than walking out chuckling, you may walk away with your own triangle of sadness engaged, brow furrowed, mouth agape, mind whirring. And isn't that kind of rush worth the price of admission?
Triangle of Sadness was reviewed out of the 60th New York Film Festival. It opens in theaters Oct. 7.
