1. The group humiliates him and walks away. Between his lips he inserts a bent cigarette.
2. Slow pan of progressively rotting fruit.
3. “I was talking to the building.”
An exquisitely nasty distillation of J. G. Ballard and his obsessions. It’s boldly impressionist; narrative is not its top priority. That’s refreshing and disorienting and refreshingly disorienting. Riveting production design and atmosphere. It was a brilliant choice to set it in the 1970s. Somehow gives it a Lindsay Anderson feel. The outside world feels so clean and orderly when you leave the theater. Perfect cast. Portishead’s cover of “S.O.S.” is doubleplusgood.