The Favourite - Limits
*Spoilers ahead for The Favourite*
Yorgos Lanthimos has long been one of my favorite directors, but not quite because his films are enjoyable in the traditional sense.
In fact, it might be just the opposite. They tend to fill you with a fascinating combination of awe and dread. But with The Favourite, Lanthimos has managed to blend his knack for the disturbing, the off-center, with a more mainstream sensibility. Deadpan, incongruous dialogue is replaced with clever banter, brought to life via incredible performances from the film's three female leads: Emma Stone, Olivia Colman, and Rachel Weisz.
(It's also worth noting just how good Nicholas Hoult is here as well. Where's his awards season recognition?)
Still, The Favourite remains a Lanthimos creation through and through, even if this is his first directorial effort that he did not also write. It seems Lanthimos has an interest in highlighting the ridiculousness, or perhaps even the futility, inherent in certain social institutions. With The Lobster, it is all about relationships. With Dogtooth and Killing of a Sacred Deer, Lanthimos dissects the institution of family, with the latter taking a particular interest in class as well.
The Favourite is a bit more philosophical in its approach, exploring the limits of power, of love, and of life.
And "limits" truly is the key word here. It is a term thrown around throughout the film, particularly towards the beginning when Sarah (Rachel Weisz) notes "love has limits" and Queen Anne (Olivia Colman) responds "it should not."
Sarah serves as Anne's court favourite, but when Sarah's cousin Abigail (Emma Stone) arrives, the cousins must jockey for position as Anne's right-hand lady. Anne proves to be rather immature, preferring her bunnies and duck races over the actual duty of governing the kingdom. Anne's immaturity particularly manifests as she finds pleasure in the rivalry between Sarah and Abigail. But it might be unfair to characterize Anne as strictly immature; she has lost seventeen children over the years, saddling her with unimaginable loss.
And so for all her disinterest in politics, and her obsessing over her appearance, it is clear Anne simply wants to be loved. For her, this love should be limitless. For Sarah, this love, while genuine, is in service of a personal agenda. Anne's court favourite effectively controls the kingdom, planting political opinions in Anne's head. And with Anne suffering from a case of gout, there is a sense that these women are competing for the opportunity to one day become queen themselves.
The love Anne receives is therefore limited as a result of her position. It is the leader's burden to feel love, to feel respect, but to never quite feel enough of either. Lanthimos represents this visually through unconventional cinematography that disorients both characters and viewers. Swift pans establish a growing divide between Sarah and Anne, refusing to allow them to share a frame. And while Abigail becomes closer and closer with Anne, wide shots still highlight a degree of separation between the two women.
The Favourite also features several shots using a fisheye lens, more so critical of their subjects than representative of relationships. These shots highlight everything within the frame as ridiculous. Because while Anne's perspective on love might be overly idealistic, the same could be said of how Sarah and Abigail view their pursuit of power.
The limits of power are made especially clear at the end of the film.
Endings, of course, are all about limits. We cannot know what comes next once the credits begin to roll, but we can certainly think about it.
Lanthimos takes this responsibility seriously, consistently ending his films on a jarring note that can leave viewers frustrated at first, but will also remain in their heads for days to come. I have always loved this aspect of Lanthimos' filmmaking, and The Favourite is no exception.
While Abigail believes herself to have won the power struggle by the end, the final shot suggests power always comes at a cost, and that it always reaches an upper limit. As Abigail rubs Anne's gout-infected leg, both women's faces are superimposed over one another. They are trapped with each other. Anne, in her pursuit of a love without limits, has ended up with a woman only looking to usurp and undermine. Abigail, in her pursuit of power, has ended up as subordinate as ever.
But another image is soon added to the mix. Anne's seventeen bunnies, one for each of her dead children, join Anne and Abigail's insipid stares. Abigail is therefore rendered one of Anne's bunnies, trapped in a cage and indicative of failure. Both women have met the limit they so clearly defied for much of the film. And in a way, we as viewers have as well. Lanthimos does an incredible job of establishing a sense of place throughout the film. Viewers can confidently navigate both the interior and exterior of the palace; perhaps we are in control here as well. Of course, we are ultimately limited to the perspective of the camera, and when that perspective is warped by fisheye lens and superimposed images, we are cautioned and humbled. The Favourite, after all, tells the story of three women all so vehemently attached to their own desires, that they lose sight of the external forces forever at play.
This dynamic, particularly as it relates to politics, can be both sobering and worrying. On one hand, the notion that we are all limited, whether we realize it or not, is a significant one. That is not to say that one should not follow their dreams, but rather our goals cannot be accomplished in a vacuum. Abigail forces her way to success and realizes the limits of this method when it is too late. She would feel right at home in our contemporary political landscape, and perhaps it is comforting to know that someone as conniving and narrow-minded as her still ultimately comes up short. But if there is an upper bound on anything that we might pursue, how do we know what progress looks like? Is change even possible? The Favourite seems certain that individual agendas will always face their limit, but perhaps the three women, and even the men in Parliament, could have met their individual definitions of success by coming together as one.
The prevalence of the term "limits" in The Favourite allowed for this analysis of the film, but it also made clear to me the power of the moving image in discussing limits, or the lack thereof. The frame is the ultimate metaphor for limits; we are privy to exactly what is inside of it, unaware of what lies beyond it.
Amazon original series Homecoming plays with this idea, utilizing a 1:1 aspect ratio in its 2022 timeline. The boxy frame highlights the limits of Heidi's memories, and only when she begins to remember her past does the frame expand to the widescreen format we have come to expect.
Forever, another Amazon original series, explores a world without limits, where even in death, we essentially keep living. The concept is both hilarious and chilling, and makes for a nice contrast with NBC's The Good Place which defines very clear limits on life and uses those to explore what it means for a life to be well lived.
Even video games are relevant here. Red Dead Redemption II has been hailed as one of the most realistic and immersive games of all time. And for the most part, I'd have to agree. But there are limits to what is meant to be an interactive experience. Players can only "Greet" or "Antagonize" those they meet, and are kept from moving freely through certain spaces. Video games, more than any other medium, try to convince us of our own control, but even control has its limits.
Each of the aforementioned texts could warrant their own posts for how innovative they are in their respective mediums, but they still bear mentioning as we continue to identify the role media plays in our everyday lives. If life really is all about potential, what we can do, perhaps media highlights what we cannot. As bleak as it sounds, this understanding may allow us to navigate our own limits, and even one day surpass them altogether.
Until next time,
Cory Reid