Triangle of Sadness, Ruben Östlund's best film yet, is a wild (and gross) ride

By the time viewers reach the final act of the immersive, volatile and innately entertaining Triangle Of Sadness, which lands them on a desert island with a small group of shipwreck survivors, they will have sworn that its beginning, set in beauty-obsessed corners of the fashion world, happened a few movies ago. This is the heartiest possible compliment I can give Swedish auteur Ruben Östlund’s latest brainy satire, a continually self-renewing yet uncompromisingly coherent opus. It’s reminiscent of a rich and compact trip you might find yourself on in a country you haven’t visited before, with every new experience feeling just as welcome, rewarding and surprising as the last.

In Triangle Of Sadness, that country, in the broadest possible terms, is the wilderness called privilege, possessed only by the wealthiest, the most powerful, and/or the prettiest. Beauty is currency, the film suggests in various ways both subtle and obvious, dropping the audience in a sea of gorgeous male models. They’re backstage at a casting call where a documentary crew is interviewing a parade of striking men—all aesthetically muscular and boyishly handsome, rather than ruggedly masculine—on their choice career. Did they receive familial support once they wanted to become a male model? Are they there for an expensive brand that looks down on its consumer, or a happy, financially egalitarian brand like H&M? More importantly, are these men OK making just one-third the income of their female counterparts?

This is perhaps the most subversive notion in Östlund’s wild gamble, since modeling is a profession in which the injustices women face every day, for once, haunt men as well. Slowly, Östlund and his repeat, crafty cinematographer Fredrik Wenzel zero in on the pretty face of Carl (Beach Rats’ Harris Dickinson, coolly funny and subtly vulnerable) amid the casting hopefuls. We follow him to a dinner meeting with his girlfriend and fellow model Yaya (the late and great Charlbi Dean) after a frustratingly imprecise audition.

Although Yaya makes more money, she doesn’t bother to pick up the check, yet again—something she promised to do the night before. The two fight about it in stunningly well-written and shockingly relatable dialogue, one of Östlund’s most distinct gifts. This quarrel prepares us for some of the film’s overarching themes—gender norms, male insecurities, and performative niceties, concepts also depicted in the filmmaker’s previous work, Force Majeure and The Square. But a luxury yacht carries both Carl and Yaya and the film’s ideas about privilege and class, as it sails through an unforgettably (and uncomfortably) hilarious and sumptuous second act that winks at Luis Buñuel’s masterpiece, The Discreet Charm Of The Bourgeoisie.

On the boat, Carl and Yaya don’t necessarily rank particularly high among fellow passengers eagerly boasting about how f*cking rich they are—manure sellers, hand-grenade manufacturers, oil barons … you name it. But the couple possesses beauty, and it isn’t long before they attract the attention of others. One, a handsome crew member who’s hairy-chested and traditionally “manly” in all the ways Carl is not, makes eyes at Yaya. Before their first full day aboard, an insecure Carl files a complaint about the worker and unknowingly gets him fired. This is how much power the customers hold on this boat, whose below-deck crew will go to any lengths to meet the needs of their guests—in exchange for healthy tips, of course. The other person who notices the couple is fertilizer emperor Dimitry (the absolutely hysterical Zlatko Burić). “I sell shit,” he says candidly in his introduction, interrupting Yaya’s latest selfie session after scoring the cruise as a perk of her second (unofficial) career as an influencer.

Among the unreasonable requests of the rich (“Can the crew drop everything and go for a swim?”), and their tone-deaf, grotesque conversations (“we are all equal”), Östlund’s insights in this section are limited to the obvious. But then he devilishly pulls the rug from under the audience (his film is always refreshingly several steps ahead), gifting us an unimaginably yucky, unnervingly funny and riotously over-the-top storm sequence in which the ship’s perennially drunk Captain (a fiendish Woody Harrelson) hosts a dinner while his passengers experience an extreme case of sea sickness. (Those with a sensitive stomach: this is your warning against ample amounts of vomit and grossly overflowing toilets.)

As the scene puts the lefty Captain and Reagan fanatic Dimitry on a drunken ideological duel, it’s a genuinely impressive and laugh-out-loud centerpiece filmed on an actually rocking set, shot and edited with a rebellious heavy-metal attitude and paired with a soundtrack to match the scene’s heightened temperament. And then Östlund turns the tide yet again, making the cruise a target of ruthless pirates, leading to the desert-island final act. But that also marks the foregrounding of Abigail (the inimitable Dolly De Leon, whose name you should memorize if you don’t already know her), the ship’s toilet manager whose blink-and-you’ll-miss-it presence underscores the audience’s culpability for similarly ignoring its staff. But on the island, she proudly becomes the captain, since she’s the only one who can fish, cook, and build a fire. Abigail’s newfound authority comes with certain bonuses, such as “cutie pie” Carl’s solo company on her private lifeboat where he exchanges sexual favors with her for packs of pretzels for himself and Yaya. Talk about beauty having currency …

It would be too lazy, even misguided to view Triangle Of Sadness—a beauty industry term that refers to one’s wrinkles between the eyebrows—as a straightforward “eat the rich” satire. Östlund’s genius lies in his stubborn refusal to be didactic, making sure that our sympathies continually shift throughout the narrative as its power structures evolve. Even so, one thing that stays constant is the feeling of antsy (yet oddly funny) discomfort, often amplified by incessant sounds like buzzing mosquitoes, crying babies, and screaming donkeys. It’s a stellar film that hits a rare sweet spot as both mainstream, accessible entertainment, and also an undeniably incisive piece of cultural commentary. And best of all, it will keep you on your toes until the sensational final moment of its breezy drift.