I love an anthology film, and the best anthologies typically feel similar to their literary counterpart: the short story collection. This is commonly tied to the horror genre, which due to its frequent use of high-concept storylines, benefits from a truncated length. Two towering classics of the form are Cat’s Eye and Creepshow, both of which are comprised of segments based on Stephen King short stories. Their translation to the big screen is aided by the fact that the serving size is so small. A non-horror example is Wild Tales, the darkly comedic collection from Damián Szifron. It’s not based on anything, but it feels notably literary. Heck, and intrepid publisher could probably make a killer adaptation (I’m looking at you, Encyclopocalypse Publications). With Kinds of Kindness, resident cinematic weirdo Yorgos Lanthimos has made an atypical (for us, not him) anthology film that also feels as if it were based on a short story collection (it’s not), and in typical Lanthimos fashion, could reasonably be categorized as horror-adjacent, even if its outward genre image is…unclassifiable.
And since Lanthimos simply cannot do anything by the books, his foray into anthology is very, very long, with each of the three segments clocking in at just under an hour in length. Yet despite the film’s size, the anthology format lends itself to a wickedly entertaining pace, and a digestion mechanism that prevents the wealth of thematic material from being drowned in plot excess. The segments, had they a textual counterpart, would be novellas rather than short stories (and if you’re a Stephen King fan, you know that many of his shorts collections begin with a novella). Kinds of Kindness embraces the narrative freedoms granted to one of the strangest filmmakers to ever reach prestige status to deliver a darkly comic, playfully misanthropic, and utterly absurd picture that plays to all of Lanthimos’ storytelling strengths without ever feeling like a greatest hits reel. It’s incredible. You’re probably going to hate it.
Each of the segments is performed by an identical cast, which serves as a showcase for the chameleonic abilities of a veritable who’s who of talent. The first, titled The Death of R.M.F. features Jesse Plemons as a businessman of sorts whose every move is dictated by his exacting boss (Willem Dafoe). After refusing a particularly gruesome demand, our hero(?) finds himself out of a job and scrambling to reassemble his life. It’s a strong opening to the picture, and the highest energy of the three tales. Ruminations on capitalism, work/life balance, and abusive relationships come to the forefront, but I’d need to see it one hundred more times to really mine it for its thematic worth (this is fine — I will watch it one hundred more times).
The second segment, R.M.F. is Flying, has Plemons playing a man whose wife (Emma Stone) has just returned home after having gone missing. He’s relieved to have her back in his life, but a variety of small factors lead him to suspect that the woman with whom he now shares his home might not be the same woman he married. The thematic work continues here, playing upon the expectations that come with long-term relationships, and the silent games couples become accustomed to playing with one another. The transactional nature of interpersonal bonding is toyed with as well. We all agree that compromise is key, but loss mitigation almost always becomes a factor…
The final segment is called R.M.F. Eats a Sandwich. Plemons steps away from center stage for this one as Stone becomes the story’s focus. She plays an intense cult member tasked with locating what is ostensibly the cult’s Jesus figure: a prophesied resurrector of the dead. The cult, led by a once again excellent Willem Dafoe and a scene-stealing Hong Chau soon deems our ‘hero’ impure, leaving her grasping for purchase within the organization while going on a rogue hunt for the savior. This ties back into the first story with its rumination on the sunken cost fallacy that keeps so many people in bad situations.
Who is R.M.F., you ask? Oh, he’s just a side character, but the inclusion of his name in each title perfectly represents how tight each individual script is. Yes, the titles all manifest literally at some point, but R.M.F. is never the focus. He’s essential to each story, but is functionally just one of many instances of overt strangeness on display. Being a Lanthimos picture, there is no shortage of little idiosyncrasies mashed into every nook and cranny, but what makes this such a notable feat of writing is that every single one of them is paid off in some way. For example, in the third segment, our lead drives like an absolute maniac. She rocks a sports car that would be right at home in a Fast & Furious flick and never misses a chance to speed, drift, or make her tires squeal. It seems at first like a hilariously bombastic throwaway gag (and really, it’s never not funny when she takes the wheel), but it eventually pays off in ways I won’t spoil.
Lanthimos has as much fun with the visuals as he does with the script, using well-timed edits and in-frame reveals to drive home astonishingly dry bits of humor or upsetting moments of shock. As is typical with his work, the camera often feels detached from the action, even in moments of intimacy, allowing the film to keep the viewer at arm’s length without feeling excluded. This air of detachment places the stories into a state of unreality that allows the performers the freedom to get away with murder in terms of tonal whiplash. We use the word “liminal” a lot these days, with varying degrees of accuracy, but I’d venture to say that Kindness forces its characters into liminal spaces where the viewer is a sort of fly on the wall. While not as punishingly cruel as The Killing of a Sacred Deer, this film exists in a similar place. It’s the real world, but it’s not. Realistic rules of physics and logic apply, but the skewed perspectives of the characters are what give the environment flavor. This is far from the fantastical whimsy of Poor Things or the fish-eyed alternative history of The Favourite.
With any anthology, there’s always the issue of order: which segment should open the show, which should hit the ground running, and which should bring it all to a close. Of the many permutations that could be employed here, I’d say that the ideal order was found, even if the steady decline in energy is apparent. The final piece is certainly the meatiest, even if it’s the least explosive (until it isn’t). Of the many criticisms this film is sure to face, this is the one which will carry the most water. The first short rips, the second one maintains, and then the third switches to a different rhythm entirely. In the moment one could be tempted to call it a deflation, but in the days since seeing the film, I’ve come to appreciate where it all lands. The fact of the matter is that had the order been altered in any way, it would’ve lost its opening thrust. And had the final segment been placed anywhere but the end, its thought-provoking nature could’ve distracted from what followed.
This is par for the course with any film from Lanthimos: you’re just going to have to sit with it — both during and after the film. It’s going to make you uncomfortable. It’s going to make you ask yourself why you’re laughing. It’s going to haunt you, whether you like it or not.
Hopefully you’ll like it. If you don’t, it’ll ruin your week.
Directed by Yorgos Lanthimos
Written by Yorgos Lanthimos, Efthimis Filippou
Starring Jesse Plemons, Emma Stone, Willem Dafoe, Margaret Qualley, Hong Chau, Mamoudou Athie
Rated R, 164 minutes
