Yorgos Lanthimos’ Poor Things is not merely a film it’s a deranged, dazzling experiment in cinematic audacity. Like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein reimagined through the lens of a darkly comedic fever dream, this adaptation of Alasdair Gray’s novel is a defiantly strange, visually sumptuous meditation on autonomy, desire, and the grotesque beauty of human imperfection. Emma Stone delivers a performance so unhinged yet precise that it borders on the supernatural, while Lanthimos wields his signature absurdism like a scalpel, dissecting societal norms with perverse glee.

At its core, Poor Things is a twisted coming-of-age tale. Bella Baxter (Stone), a resurrected woman with the brain of an infant, evolves from babbling curiosity to razor-sharp self-awareness, navigating a world both wondrous and cruel. Stone’s physicality here is astonishing her jerky movements, wide-eyed wonder, and later, her defiant stride, all map Bella’s metamorphosis with visceral clarity. It’s a role that demands complete surrender to absurdity, and Stone commits with fearless abandon. Opposite her, Willem Dafoe as the scarred, morally ambiguous Dr. Godwin Baxter is both terrifying and tender, a mad scientist whose paternal affection is as unsettling as his experiments.

Visually, the film is a feast of surreal grandeur. Robbie Ryan’s cinematography oscillates between fish-eye distortions and sweeping, painterly tableaus, evoking a world that feels simultaneously archaic and fantastical. The production design a riot of gothic whimsy and steampunk eccentricity creates a universe where every frame feels like an unearthed relic from some alternate Victorian nightmare. Yet, for all its aesthetic bravado, Poor Things occasionally stumbles under the weight of its own excess. Some scenes linger too long in their oddity, diluting their impact, and the screenplay’s satirical jabs, while sharp, can feel overly repetitive in their critique of patriarchal absurdities.

Where the film soars is in its refusal to conform to narrative conventions, to tonal consistency, or to audience expectations. Mark Ruffalo’s uproarious turn as a foppish, self-deluded cad provides riotous levity, yet even his buffoonery masks something darker: the fragility of male ego when confronted with a woman it cannot control. Jerskin Fendrix’s discordant, whimsically eerie score mirrors Bella’s fractured psyche, weaving childlike melodies with unsettling dissonance.

Poor Things is not for everyone its unapologetic weirdness, graphic sexuality, and meandering detours will alienate as many as they enthrall. But for those willing to embrace its anarchic spirit, it’s a film that lingers, challenging and confounding in equal measure. Lanthimos has crafted something defiantly original: a grotesque ballet of liberation, where every misstep is intentional, every flaw a deliberate brushstroke in a masterpiece of controlled chaos.