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Last two paragraphs make allusions to the conclusion of the film, so even though it doesn't outright spoil exactly how it ends, it does give one an idea of how the climax plays out.
So, SPOILERS below
So, SPOILERS below
The heart is a funny thing. If you stare at one long enough, there is no telling what one might compare it to as it sits there, wheezing and throbbing and spurting. As Killing of a Sacred Deer begins, and we gaze unblinkingly down into an opened chest cavity, I found it to look like an enormous fist stripped clean of all flesh, its blood-raw fingers clenching and unclenching around a quivering slice of uncooked chicken breast. How very strange. To think that I’ve got one of those too. It was then at that very moment, as I began to sense my own sliver of poultry flesh beginning to quiver inside of me, I quickly looked away.
By the time I looked back, the surgery was over, and Colin Farrell was pulling off his surgical gloves. After tossing these into the trash, we then cut to another overhead shot, looking down upon this mound of blood-sticky latex sitting in a bed of powder blue hospital scrubs. Mirroring the previous image of the throbbing heart, this coil of gloves lays inertly for us to view as long as we like. There is no need to recoil from it. We may even laugh, for uncertain reasons, as we begin to note the compositional similarities between the two shots.
With the opening scene now behind us, there is a sense of relief in being allowed to return to a world where chests are sewn back up, we can't see the things we've got hidden inside, and it’s expected we go back to dispassionately gazing at things more appropriate for the world we have chosen to live in—like a bit of elasticized rubber in a garbage bin. A relic of our modern world. A remanent of intimate human contact, now removed from anything human. A perfect balm for flesh induced queasiness. After experiencing the overwhelming sense of vulnerability that comes with watching the delicate working of a living heart, it's nice to turn to look at something so durable, so effortlessly disposable. Even if this latex glove happens to be dappled with bodily fluids, let’s just consider that a bit of spatter from our wounded conscience as we turn our attention away from the living world, yet again.
Killing of a Sacred Deer seems to be all about this reflex to look away. To keep focused on the banal, even as it strips us of our passions and our blood and, yes, our heart. Its characters prefer ducking behind conversations about the best kind of watch strap, or how much underarm hair they’ve got, or their predilection towards mashed potatoes. They speak in a flat manner, because they all realize there is no real need for anyone to be listening to them. They, of course, probably aren’t listening to you either. Maybe, in a dramatic turn, you might claim to prefer a metal watch strap, while they prefer the leather, but when all is said and done, they will agree that both are quite fine anyways. They are now free to move onto other matters of equal irrelevancy.
What will ultimately turn this from just being some perverted comedy of manners and into something akin to horror, will be the trick director Lanthimos has planned for the family of Stephen Murphy (Colin Farrel). Just as Lanthimos forced his audience to gaze upon what a sloppy bit of machinery it is that keeps all of our life juices sloshing merrily about, he will also subject his characters into an equally uncomfortable staring contest. He wants them to look inside themselves. Find what they truly feel, even if they had no idea they were actually feeling anything at all. And to do so, he will put the lives of Stephen’s wife and children at stake.
Sadly, for them, they will find they can no longer rely on their banal dinner table comments for camouflage. Pointing out the spaghetti-twirling techniques of their forks will no longer be enough to get them through to the end of the day. Instead, what will be required for them will be to find the contradictory nature of their own hearts. Find the love that might be in there. Reckon with its frailties, cruelties, inconsistencies and vulnerabilities. And, considering the stakes the film presents, what they end up finding will literally be a matter of life and death. If they refuse to at least give a proper peek, how else will be Stephen Murphy ever be able to choose who in his family gets to live, and who should die?
Of course, he will not react well to such a demand. He’d prefer the answer to this terrible predicament to be found anywhere else. Anywhere at all. Maybe his glove compartment. Tucked away in his eyeglass case or hidden inside the pages of an unread book he’s displayed on a conveniently placed shelf. Something he need only blandly stare at until the answer appears. But not his feelings. These, after all, don’t sit too well with him after their many years of being neglected. And as this situation he finds himself in begins to unleash such unfamiliar sensations as rage and sorrow and fear, all he will find himself able to do in response is dissolve into the sort of disordered behavior one might expect to come from a malfunctioning robot, unable to cope with an influx of alien data.
In one such moment, he will rant about the lack of pubes to be found in his kitchen drawers. During another, he threatens to make his child eat his own hair if he doesn’t confess a secret. And as time begins to run out and a final decision must be made, instead of reckoning with any of the emotions he has found on his way, he will instead bumble towards the conclusion by making a spectacle of himself in the living room. Standing in in nothing but his underwear and a woolen cap pulled down over his eyes, he will begin to spin himself around and around in clumsy circles. This is his last resort so as not to have to take any responsibility for the choice he is about to make. It feels both pathetic and completely understandable, simultaneously.
At first, we might laugh, because it all is so absurd. But as we keep watching, and he just continues to spin and spin, getting dizzy and disoriented, his legs beginning to wobble like those of a toddler unfamiliar with standing upright, he will appear so childish in how his despair is manifesting, that we might find ourselves shuddering. Blinded by his woolen cap, unwilling to see what is in front of him as he comes to a stop, I found myself knowing the feeling all too well. Just like how I felt at the beginning of the film, looking at that heart, and refusing to believe I have one too. The only difference between me and him being that I remained motionless as I looked away, frightened that any sudden movement might only make its presence more noticeable.
By the time I looked back, the surgery was over, and Colin Farrell was pulling off his surgical gloves. After tossing these into the trash, we then cut to another overhead shot, looking down upon this mound of blood-sticky latex sitting in a bed of powder blue hospital scrubs. Mirroring the previous image of the throbbing heart, this coil of gloves lays inertly for us to view as long as we like. There is no need to recoil from it. We may even laugh, for uncertain reasons, as we begin to note the compositional similarities between the two shots.
With the opening scene now behind us, there is a sense of relief in being allowed to return to a world where chests are sewn back up, we can't see the things we've got hidden inside, and it’s expected we go back to dispassionately gazing at things more appropriate for the world we have chosen to live in—like a bit of elasticized rubber in a garbage bin. A relic of our modern world. A remanent of intimate human contact, now removed from anything human. A perfect balm for flesh induced queasiness. After experiencing the overwhelming sense of vulnerability that comes with watching the delicate working of a living heart, it's nice to turn to look at something so durable, so effortlessly disposable. Even if this latex glove happens to be dappled with bodily fluids, let’s just consider that a bit of spatter from our wounded conscience as we turn our attention away from the living world, yet again.
Killing of a Sacred Deer seems to be all about this reflex to look away. To keep focused on the banal, even as it strips us of our passions and our blood and, yes, our heart. Its characters prefer ducking behind conversations about the best kind of watch strap, or how much underarm hair they’ve got, or their predilection towards mashed potatoes. They speak in a flat manner, because they all realize there is no real need for anyone to be listening to them. They, of course, probably aren’t listening to you either. Maybe, in a dramatic turn, you might claim to prefer a metal watch strap, while they prefer the leather, but when all is said and done, they will agree that both are quite fine anyways. They are now free to move onto other matters of equal irrelevancy.
What will ultimately turn this from just being some perverted comedy of manners and into something akin to horror, will be the trick director Lanthimos has planned for the family of Stephen Murphy (Colin Farrel). Just as Lanthimos forced his audience to gaze upon what a sloppy bit of machinery it is that keeps all of our life juices sloshing merrily about, he will also subject his characters into an equally uncomfortable staring contest. He wants them to look inside themselves. Find what they truly feel, even if they had no idea they were actually feeling anything at all. And to do so, he will put the lives of Stephen’s wife and children at stake.
Sadly, for them, they will find they can no longer rely on their banal dinner table comments for camouflage. Pointing out the spaghetti-twirling techniques of their forks will no longer be enough to get them through to the end of the day. Instead, what will be required for them will be to find the contradictory nature of their own hearts. Find the love that might be in there. Reckon with its frailties, cruelties, inconsistencies and vulnerabilities. And, considering the stakes the film presents, what they end up finding will literally be a matter of life and death. If they refuse to at least give a proper peek, how else will be Stephen Murphy ever be able to choose who in his family gets to live, and who should die?
Of course, he will not react well to such a demand. He’d prefer the answer to this terrible predicament to be found anywhere else. Anywhere at all. Maybe his glove compartment. Tucked away in his eyeglass case or hidden inside the pages of an unread book he’s displayed on a conveniently placed shelf. Something he need only blandly stare at until the answer appears. But not his feelings. These, after all, don’t sit too well with him after their many years of being neglected. And as this situation he finds himself in begins to unleash such unfamiliar sensations as rage and sorrow and fear, all he will find himself able to do in response is dissolve into the sort of disordered behavior one might expect to come from a malfunctioning robot, unable to cope with an influx of alien data.
In one such moment, he will rant about the lack of pubes to be found in his kitchen drawers. During another, he threatens to make his child eat his own hair if he doesn’t confess a secret. And as time begins to run out and a final decision must be made, instead of reckoning with any of the emotions he has found on his way, he will instead bumble towards the conclusion by making a spectacle of himself in the living room. Standing in in nothing but his underwear and a woolen cap pulled down over his eyes, he will begin to spin himself around and around in clumsy circles. This is his last resort so as not to have to take any responsibility for the choice he is about to make. It feels both pathetic and completely understandable, simultaneously.
At first, we might laugh, because it all is so absurd. But as we keep watching, and he just continues to spin and spin, getting dizzy and disoriented, his legs beginning to wobble like those of a toddler unfamiliar with standing upright, he will appear so childish in how his despair is manifesting, that we might find ourselves shuddering. Blinded by his woolen cap, unwilling to see what is in front of him as he comes to a stop, I found myself knowing the feeling all too well. Just like how I felt at the beginning of the film, looking at that heart, and refusing to believe I have one too. The only difference between me and him being that I remained motionless as I looked away, frightened that any sudden movement might only make its presence more noticeable.