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Haigh’s film is more a tone poem on loss and love than a strictly linear narrative. To let someone in and allow himself to accept love, Adam must first find the closure he’s never had. The entire proceedings exist in a dreamlike state, leaving the audience unsure of what is real and what is imagined.
Scott and Mescal have electric chemistry; their love scenes are sweaty, intimate, and visceral. But though their romance has been the film’s main selling point, that is actually secondary to the parental love story at play.
The film gets off to a shaky start, with a dragging pace and an overacted performance from Stone in Bella’s most childlike sequences, but once Ruffalo shows up and the film switches from black-and-white to color, we’re off to the races.
It’s fitting that Lanthimos’ most daring, inventive film to date is about a mad scientist’s creation since one could argue that he is a mad scientist of cinema. Poor Things is no exception, with its jocund embrace of bodily fluids, sexual congress, and general visual exuberance.
