Ben Wheatley is—and always has been—an imperfect filmmaker. And I don’t think he gives a flying shit about it, to be honest. His filmography speaks for itself: frequently bold and daring confections that blow carefree raspberries to sparkly prestige pics and big-budgeted blockbusters.
This one’s hard to talk about. Not because of the material, which cuts right into you like a knife with jagged edges, but because the way the material is executed is… rough. Like, holy-hell-this-is-making-me-very-uncomfortable-right-now rough.