I know of a 100-year-old woman who still thought of her 69-year-old son as her “boy”; when she died last year he mourned the loss of his status as somebody’s child. Such feelings endure naturally enough: Most of us are born into a familial or relational structure that shapes — along with just about everything else — how we identify ourselves. The trick is in the balance — the difference, say, between “You’ll always be my little boy” and ” You’ll always be my little boy. ” Some parents struggle to keep absolute power from corrupting their best intentions, as Cyrus ‘s creepily co-dependent mother and son pointed out, to comic effect. The limning of those boundaries is often played for laughs; the alternative is very dark indeed. Swap those laughs for a kind of mordant horror and you get Dogtooth , a brightly lit nightmare of patriarchy run amok.
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REVIEW: Perverse Dogtooth Wins With Sickness and Slickness
