I pause for a moment. I am looking for a way, even a tiny little door like that of Alice because Dogtooth, which in its own deviated fashion is no doubt a land of wonders, has left me as any Yorgos Lanthimos film—with a blurry sense of curiosity and fascination.
My fingers touch weightlessly the keyboard as if pleading for collaboration—sometimes it works. The word ‘experimental’ appears on the white page. I read it once or twice. Wrong suggestion, I conclude—never trust the machines. I glimpse my reflection in the mirror with the corner of my eye. Back to the screen, I type ‘surreal,’ which I seem to find a little more convincing—and yet so generic. Thus I delete it but slowly, going backward letter by letter, thinking that after all it is not that off. By now I’m a little annoyed because I’ll be soon run out of time and energy. It’s very late, but on the nth tragic yawn some clearer ideas finally start to take shape.
Pitching a brilliant, if eccentric, solution Dogtooth hints at Plato’s cave while delving into the delicate themes of education and parenthood. Raising a family ceased to be a natural task as our century began to put pressure on the individual, exposing him more and more to the manipulative compulsions of society. As any clever satire, Dogtooth lets us build the bridge from its allegoric aberrations to our own weaknesses, our own neuroses, our own fixations—which is scary, and profound, and now I am definitely tired. But there’s one last thing I can't help wondering—if Lanthimos has any clue of the expressions he puts on his viewers’ faces. As I am sure he wouldn’t mind, mine is currently that of a ‘little yellow flower’. That said, I switch off the light, but keep my eyes open.