Athina Rachel Tsangari’s much-anticipated follow-up to her 2010 film Attenberg finds her making a (sort of) chamber piece poking fun at masculinity with Chevalier. The film takes place almost entirely on a boat, where six men are taking a vacation with each other. One night the men try coming up with a game to play in order to pass the time, when one of them suggests a strange competition: everyone will constantly judge each other on every aspect (how they dress, how they react to things, what they do, what they don’t do, if they bite their nails, etc.), assigning points to “good” behaviour, and at the end of the trip the man with the most points will be declared the best man.

Chevalier is one of those cases that proves the old adage of hindsight being 20/20. In retrospect, the admiration for what Tsangari is doing can overshadow the fact that watching Chevalier unfold is a little too dry for its own good. Tsangari leaves plenty of room for interpretation in terms of figuring out what exactly this absurdist case of male competition can represent, but some moments point toward a fun case of role reversal between genders (Getting judged on a constant basis based on arbitrary and cosmetic standards? I’m sure one gender can relate to that). Yet Tsangari’s concept only has fleeting pleasures, and Chevalier has what feels like a lot of dead air between its comedic highlights. At the end, Chevalier at least follows through on its set-up: a winner is selected, the men go their separate ways. And the film disappears almost as quickly as it arrives.

How does one even begin to describe the enigma that is Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Lobster? Since reading a brief description of its bizarre narrative months ago, it has been one of my most anticipated films of the year (and made our list for most anticipated films of 2015), and those familiar with Lanthimos’ previous work (most notably his 2009 Academy Award nominated film Dogtooth) are probably aware of how strange his work can be—but never without justification. The Lobster tells the story of David (Colin Farrell), a man who has recently been left by his partner and decides to check into The Hotel, where he has a month and a half to meet a new, suitable partner, otherwise he will be transformed into an animal of his choice.

The Lobster functions as part absurdist comedy, part dark romance and part social satire. The comedy is sharp and the romantic elements provide it with a sense of lightness which would have otherwise been absent; the execution of its societal commentary, however, is what sends it into uncharted territory, and the main reason why it comes across as such a deeply original work. Lanthimos pokes fun at certain commonalities of the modern romantic relationship, such as the notion that “birds of a feather flock together,” by utilizing the element of exaggeration. For instance, each character in the film has their singular unique characteristic. David is nearsighted, and thus is only interested in finding a woman who is nearsighted as well. The Limping Man (Ben Whishaw) pursues a woman who suffers from frequent nosebleeds, so in order to capture her attention and fool her into thinking that they are a match, he begins inflicting trauma on his nose, causing it to bleed when in her presence.

When I first saw Dogtooth, I praised it for its technical mastery: its carefully framed static shots, sharp editing and claustrophobic production design. Still, something held me back from fully embracing it, and looking back on the viewing experience now, I’m certain it was that I had a difficult time trying to figure out what it was saying about civilization. Its surreal and otherworldly, for sure, but what sort of comment is it trying to make about the human condition? It is indeed a tough egg to crack. The Lobster, on the other hand, is much more coherent (and dare I say accessible) in its satire. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, as I never thought I would be describing a Lanthimos film as accessible, but I definitely think people will have an easier time figuring out the meaning behind all of the madness here.

The technical elements of The Lobster are just as sound as those of Dogtooth, and aesthetically similar. The camera is almost perpetually static, and much attention is paid to the framing of certain shots, which is interesting because it allows the director to isolate aural elements such as off-screen noises that, though they cannot be seen, having a significant bearing on specific scenes. The musical score is jarring, but not in a negative way; I imagine it will be one of the first technical aspects that viewers take notice of, as its a loud and powerful score which makes itself known within the first few minutes. There isn’t much that I would change about The Lobster; if I was to suggest anything to the editors, it would be to pick out and remove certain scenes which might not seem as pertinent as others, for the film does exhaust a bit in its third act. Aside from that, it is a hilarious and biting critique of interpersonal relationships that is sure to appeal to a wider audience than Lanthimos’ previous works, and may bring him back into the limelight when award season rolls around.

Step aside Ryan Gosling, there is a new driver in town. One who trades good looks for absurd quirks and puts a new spin on taking your work home with you. The gist of L sounds simple, it’s about a man trying to find his identity, however, the film is shot with a new wave Greek cinema style that throws convention out the window. The result is a film bursting with deadpan humor and bizarre principles, with philosophical implications underlining it all. When a character describes a nightmare as a good time, you know you’re in for a treat.

L follows a nameless man who spends all of his time not only working inside his car, but living inside it as well. This forty-year old man does not know much about the outside world because he spends so little time in it. The first time he leaves his car in the film is half-way through when his boss fires him for not reciting his instructions fast enough. Filled to the brim with irony, a driver being fired based not on how well he drives, but on how fast he can verbally repeat instructions is only one example in this film.

In one scene, a motorcyclist lies in the middle of the road after being hit by a car. The main character pulls up next to a gang of bikers who explain that people in cars act like they own the road. Drivers are in their own world because they can listen to music, control the temperature of their environment, consume food, and even kill others with their vehicles. The bikers discuss the irony of an injured motorist waiting for an ambulance, essentially a car, the very thing that nearly killed him.

Finally seeing the main character get out of his car signifies he has moved on in his life to start a new adventure. Though it still involves driving as he decides to sport a motorcycle instead of a car. With his new identity, people who used to know him well can barely recognize him. For him it is a completely new way of living. No longer is he protected from weather or in control of his surroundings; his way of life while still so similar is suddenly vastly different and more dangerous.

Being that L and Dogtooth shared the same writer, Efthymis Filippou (who also wrote Alps), as well as the same cinematographer, Thimios Bakatakis (who also did Keep the Lights On), it comes as little surprise that they have a similar feel. Both films contain characters that show little emotion, an unsettling storyline, and are filmed without much movement. The camera remains fixed for the entire film, even when the car is in motion the camera never pans. Instead the camera remains steady which a great juxtaposition considering there is so much motion in the film.

Aris Servetalis, who also appeared in Alps, wonderfully delivers his lines in a deadpan manner. He shows no emotion even when expressing himself. A feat that seems quite difficult but that is proven in a scene where he screams loudly while conveying the sense that he does not even feel the emotions he’s displaying. From the look of it his life is nothing admirable; separated from his wife and spending time with his children only involves taking a drive with them. His best friend pretends to be a bear and was supposedly killed by a hunter yet he is shown still alive. Nothing in the L universe is quite normal.

In any other film, watching a man continuously ram his car into concrete walls on purpose would seem bizarre, but in L it seems fitting though sad because of what the car signifies. This is the kind of world that Babis Makridis creates in his directorial debut. L is an unsettling piece of work that closely resembles an abstract painting; all of its uncanny elements make sense to the right beholder, while others stare, simply baffled.

Giorgos Lanthimos’ Alps is a follow-up (some say companion piece) to his amazing 2009 film Dogtooth. The gist of the film is about how the main character loses her own identity while trying to impersonate others. The premise may not even sound all that weird because I stripped out the absurd elements that surround it. Alps may be too bizarre for some, however, you sign up for it with Lanthimos behind the camera. I found the unsettling observations in the film fascinating but not as much right at first. It is a film that sits with you awhile until you realize how purposeful the oddities were.

A woman rhythmically ribbon dances to classic orchestra music in an empty gymnasium except for one man. After her flawless routine she sits down in discouragement. She wants to do something with more pop she explains. But the man insists that she is not ready for it yet and scolds her for not trusting his judgment. He goes on to say that if she raises her voice to him again (which she did not to begin with) then he will break her arms and legs. This is the kind of “coach” that you come to expect from a Lanthimos film.

A group of people gather and explain on how they came up with the name Alps to call themselves. There were two reasons why the decided on Alps. The first is that it does not reveal anything about what they are doing. The second reason is because the Alps is a mountain range that no other mountains can substitute. The word substitute is important there because it explains what they actually do.

About a third of the way into Alps it becomes clear that they are substitutes for people that have recently passed away. When people lose their loved ones at the hospital this group of people offer to become the person that died as a way to ease the pain for the family. They completely emulate the deceased person; wear their clothes, say things in the way the person would have said things, and even live in their homes.

The scenes where the substitute is trying to act like the person that passed away were the best. It was awkward to watch them trying to fill the void of the person the family missed. Even though it is amusing to watch them impersonate someone else, the film does bring up a good question. Would people who loosely resembled someone that passed away close to you actually help ease the grieving process?

In the end Alps is less about those grieving loved ones, and more about the impersonator needing the grievers. Switching the roles between who needed who in order to function in life was by far the most interesting aspect of the film. In order to accurately portray someone, you must become that person, like an actor typically tries to do. The film shows just how dangerous it is to cling on to someone else’s identity.

Alps is not quite as disturbing but it is as equally bizarre as Dogtooth. You can definitely tell they were both directed by Giorgos Lanthimos, who already has created a unique style of his own. And a fantastic one at that. There were many similarities between both films; the color saturation, deadpan dialog and outlandish characters. Another note on characters, in both films none of the main characters have real names.

Depending on how you literal you took Dogtooth, you could consider it a pretty obvious satire on over-protective parenting. On the surface, Alps could be considered it a satire on over-acting. Dialog is delivered in an obvious mesmerized manner in scenes where the substitute presumably sounds nothing like the person they are portraying. Also characters heavily rely on objects to carryout the impersonation of the dead person they are trying to become, such as wearing a pair of shoes or perfume.

In true Lanthimos fashion, Alps allows you to interpret just how literal you want to take the themes found in it. However, Alps is more compelling the deeper you look into it. Even though it did not quite reach the level that Dogtooth got to for me, it still was a fascinating film that you simply cannot take your eyes off of. Lanthimos has certainly made his mark as director to watch out for.