By Lilly Sokolowski
Sick of Myself, directed by Kristoffer Borgli, is a malicious satire. Echoing the twisted spirit of Ottessa Moshfegh’s novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation, this Norwegian dark comedy follows self-obsessed barista Signe (Kristine Kujath Thorp) and her equally conceited artist boyfriend Thomas (Eirik Sæther) as their competitive relationship leads Signe to become entranced by a desire for attention following the success of Thomas’ career. In her desperation, she begins to deliberately overdose on a mysterious Russian pill, Lidexol, disfiguring her face in a bid for sympathy and fame. We are thus plummeted into Signe’s delusions as the film explores notions of narcissism, privilege, and disability.
Sick of Myself is not an easy watch. Its central character is so infuriating that any sympathy for her is quickly washed away as we witness her self-obsessed escapades. Yet, it is in this uncomfortability that the film is so intriguing and its terrible, central characters are rendered just as compelling as they are irritating. Indeed, there is a parallel with Joachim Trier’s The Worst Person in the World, beyond sharing the same producers (Trier also provided feedback on the film during editing), as the film explores a disillusioned female protagonist who makes selfish choices on a journey of self-discovery. Sick of Myself, however, is extremely perverse in comparison, luxuriating in its use of body horror to take its dark comedy almost too far: to the point where it is no longer funny in its absurdity. As the film cuts in and out of Signe’s delusions, reality is blurred, and we are never fully sure whether what we’re witnessing is real or all in her head. It is here where the film is most effective, this jarring use of narrative allowing it to slowly grate away at us just like Signe is doing to everyone around her.
The film’s depiction of the way in which people with disabilities and people with chronic illnesses are often only valued if they are conventionally attractive and therefore profitable is particularly pertinent. Once again, it does not shy away from exaggerating these premises, forcing a discomfort upon the audience that pushes us to reconcile with the varied ways in which a capitalist society profits off of difference if it is marketable and highly consumable. Indeed, many of the people around Signe, including her boyfriend, approach her not from a place of compassion but with an exploitative intrigue. The film is embroiled in this sense of desperation for social status as one character seems to be just as conceited as the next.
Despite a fantastic performance from Kristine Kujath Thorp, Sick of Myself, at times, does fall flat as we are left with nothing but Signe’s hollow desires. As her motivation and desperation for attention is never fully clear, emerging perhaps from extreme loneliness, Signe feels never fully realised, with the strange charm of her horribleness wearing off by the end of the film. The characters around her too lack depth. And, as a consequence, somewhat like Signe herself, I was left wanting more.
Sick of Myself can be seen in cinemas now.
MELBOURNE UNIVERSITY FILM INQUIRER 