Sinister, shallow, sadistic. These three words describe Sick Of Myself in its entirety. Written and directed by Kristoffer Borgli, this is a film like no other.
Sick Of Myself is a passionate examination of horrific self-obsession. It follows Signe (Kristine Kujath Thorp), an empty, insecure pathological liar who spends her days attempting to secure any shred of attention she can find, and stealing furniture with her boyfriend. Tired of being overshadowed by her boyfriend’s increasing rise to fame, Signe crafts a callous plan to regain the spotlight.
The Norwegian horror flick unapologetically displays its dreadful characters in all their glory. Vapid, self-centred, attention seeking and foolish, Signe, her boyfriend, and her friends are so severely wrapped up in their own desires, almost every interaction they have is a surface level exchange of ego-buffing nonsense.
Rather than opt for genuine connection or intimacy, Signe attempts to manipulate her way into gaining the attention she is SO sure she deserves. In classic fashion, the more she pleads for attention, the less she receives. The desperation oozes out of her, the insecurity is worn on her face almost constantly. She repells everyone she comes into contact with. Even when she does acquire sympathy and attention, it is never enough. She repeatedly pokes and prods at those surrounding her for more. She seeks more emotion, more care, more attention.
A radical reflection on privilege and entitlement, Sick Of Myself gnaws at that part inside every person that is painfully seeking love, care and affection. Despite the endless unlikeable flaws of Signe, she is captivating to watch. Her drastic actions seldom lead to the drastic consequences she seeks. Time and time again Signe lies to herself, and everyone around her. She fantasises small moments of power and admiration, as if these things are fine tuned into her destiny. The film leans into its own absurdity, resulting in a layer of comical charm that subtly guides the darker moments of Signe’s ridiculous scheme. There’s an air of humorous absurdity to everything Signe says and does. Her grand delusions only grow more twisted as her regard for herself and her sanity crumble. By blurring the lines between fact and fiction so aggressively, it becomes impossible to tell where reality ends and her fucked up fantasies begin.
Sick Of Myself bathes in its own irony. Signe’s journey is shrouded in short-sighted selfishness. By the time the credits roll, she is left with far less than when she started. This is ironic. If only she had recognised and appreciated all she had before she began her attention-seeking scheme, her life would have flourished. Instead, Sick Of Myself showcases the extreme consequences of resentment, as Signe’s refusal to take responsibility for herself results in truly unbelievable repercussions.
Outside of the rollercoaster ride that is Signe’s mental state, Sick Of Myself displays gorgeous use of colour in almost every shot. The neat, crisp aesthetic of the world around Signe is satisfying to witness. The careful consideration of colour is further amplified by growing depictions of gore. The sicker our unhinged protagonist becomes, the sicker the visuals.
Overall, Sick Of Myself is disgusting. It is intense and insane. It gleefully oozes with narcissistic ugliness. And this is exactly what makes it so bloody enjoyable.
Sick of Myself opens in NY on April 12th and LA April 14th
by Kelsie Dickinson
Screen Queens 