The satirical targets of Triangle of Sadness do not require precision. Swedish filmmaker Ruben Östlund, who won the Palme d’Or for this film, usually has something specific on his mind. His breakthrough Force Majeure was a scathing critique of male vanity, while The Square (which also won the top Cannes prize) took aim at the world of high art. Now in his English language debut, Östlund skewers the extremely wealthy, a target as old as satire itself. Anyone familiar with Luis Buñuel – hell, anyone who has watched Succession or The White Lotus on HBO – already has a pretty good idea about what it has to say. What keeps it compelling, at least for a little while, is the gleeful way Östlund wallows in bad taste for its own sake.
At first, the film looks and acts like a rehash of Force Majeure. Östlund introduces us to Carl (Harris Dickinson), a sexy model who is in a relationship with Yaya (Charlbi Dean, who tragically died earlier this summer). The dynamics between them are wildly uneven: female models get more attention and money than their male counterparts, and Yaya likes to needle Carl however she can. Carl can barely articulates his feelings about this inequity, which bubble to the surface after one dinner: she expects him to pay the bill, despite saying otherwise earlier in the day (Dickinson’s performance as male bimbo or “mimbo” is kind of courageous). They cause a scene in the restaurant, and the argument continues in the ride home and the luxurious hotel where they’re staying. Östlund pulls away from humiliating Carl because, well, his film is more ambitious than that and there is an easy way to resolve their difference: they’re young and attractive, so sex can smooth things over.
The lover’s quarrel is merely an appetizer for the main course, since the lion’s share of Triangle of Sadness follows Carl and Yaya board a luxury yacht. Östlund veers his attention elsewhere, following the other passengers and the long-suffering crew. Everyone is polite, but the ultra-rich passengers find ways to throw little tantrums. One guest keeps complaining about dirt on the sail, despite being assured by The Captain (Woody Harrelson) the boat is entirely motorized. No one in the crew can fraternize with the guests, which frustrated one woman who insists that they all get a break to swim for a few minutes. A sense of familiarity starts to creep in, but Östlund still has a few tricks up his sleeve. Some of the guests are charismatic in a vulgar way, like a Russian industrialist named Dmitry (Zlatko Burić) who made his money “selling shit” (his line is agriculture).
Dmitry’s insistence on saying “shit,” to the glowering looks of others, proves to be prophetic. In the film’s best scene, the guests and crew struggle through a glamorous multi-course dinner while the tide causes the boat to tilt back and forth. Everyone maintains a veneer of respectability, until the oysters, champagne and gastronomic courses are all too much: guests start puking/shitting their guts out, all while apologizing profusely. The scene is halfway between Monty Python and Jackass, as if Östlund relishes an opportunity to needle the art-house audience who may not find scatological humor as infectious as, say, a teenage boy would. But the bad dinner keeps going and going, with Östlund piling on humiliation, until it gets so absurd the only recourse is to laugh (or maybe rush out of the theater). The Captain and Dmitry further compound the absurdity because it turns out the Captain is a Marxist, leading to a drunken political argument while diarrhea goes everywhere. For a while, anyway, it does not hurt that Triangle of Sadness has the set-up and payoff you find in sketch comedy.
Unfortunately, Östlund squanders his grossout goodwill in the film’s final act, one where the ship crashes and survivors find themselves on a deserted island. It will shock no one the film pursues a role reversal, one where a crew member named Abigail (Dolly de Leon) has actual utility on the island now that status no longer matters. The particulars of island survival are where the film starts to drag, even when they’re seen through the prism of Carl, Yaya and other survivors who like to pretend they can provide some value. The film glosses over what could have been interesting (i.e. pirates taking over the yacht) to make points about the ephemeral nature of wealth or whatever. There are some fine performances, including de Leon’s slow shift from a demure woman into the island’s matriarch, and yet there is nothing here transgressive to smooth over the superficiality of it all.
Practiced vulgarians, whether they work in horror or comedy, realize that bad taste goes a long way. You don’t need plot and character when the audience experience is purely visceral. But once you open that door – or maybe that orifice – the celebration of low entertainment cannot really stop, which is why vulgarians shrewdly save the biggest gross-out for last. Triangle of Sadness shows Östlund dabbling in that world, then deciding he would rather say something important than wallow any further. The ironic thing, one that eludes the film, is that the commitment to bad taste might have led to added significance.
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