Few movies in recent history have caused as much chatter, praise, and puzzlement as Poor Things. Made with such a fearless hand by such a fearless director, performed so energetically by such a talented ensemble cast, the movie polarized audiences and critics alike—not necessarily because of what it does, but because of the unflinching way it demands you to feel. It doesn’t merely crave your attention—it demands your discomfort. And in the process, it challenges your assumptions regarding cinema, art, and even ethics.
At first, its genre surprises audience members. It’s nominally a comedy, but one that presents itself as a misnomer—more of a bait-and-switch. Rather than delivering easy laughs and plain fun, Poor Things is an unsettling combination of morbid imagery, philosophical subtext, and black humor.
It addresses everything from surgical experimentation and sex abuse to suicide, leaving most of us wondering how it’s even part of the comedy category at all. As one author penned, calling it a comedy is like handing someone a map that leads them straight into a foreign country.
At the heart of the film is Emma Stone’s phenomenal work as Bella, an adult woman whose mind is that of a child trapped in an adult body. Stone completely disappears into the role, dropping all traces of her usual charm to portray someone discovering the world all over again.
She moves, speaks, and reacts with the awe and stumbling clumsiness of a toddler, and Bella’s growth is both dreamlike and painfully real. Stone herself described the experience as “liberating,” the freedom to move without self-consciousness, the protective layers removed. It’s a performance that doesn’t simply dazzle—it lingers.
Willem Dafoe brings an unexplained intensity to his role as Godwin, the creator and protector of Bella. Half father, half captor, his character is one of the conflicted tensions between power and protection. He’s unnerving, but strangely sympathetic—a man fixated on control, even as his creations start to turn on him. And then there’s Mark Ruffalo as Duncan Wedderburn, the pompous lawyer whose swaggering initial confidence gives way to desperation as Bella starts to get the better of him. His breakdown is a corrosive denunciation of brittle manhood and privilege.
The film is a visually unique one. Set in a dreamlike steampunk world, Victorian London is mingled with fantastic technological contortions—airborne carriages, unreal buildings, and unfeasibly colored skies. The production design and costuming are rich and unreal, placing the viewer within a world that is both fantastical and deeply unsettling. The music is also eerie, with a childlike sense of strangeness that underlines the stranger aspects of the movie. With its chapters structured like a novel, the style gives audiences short interruptions to process the sensory data.
But most really drives Poor Things into brash territory is its unflinching exploration of taboo topics. The movie addresses sexual autonomy, control of one’s body, queer desire, and sex work through the lens of Bella’s awakening. The transition from black-and-white to color during her first time is more than a matter of style—it’s a turning point signaling her growing independence and the genesis of her defying conformity.
Instead of shying away from discomfort, Poor Things insists on it. The movie doesn’t merely make you squirm—it compels you to consider why you’re squirming. How do we determine what behavior is and isn’t socially acceptable? Why should we be afraid or judge particular expressions, particularly those from someone who hasn’t been informed by the same cultural trappings? Bella’s childlike worldview distills everything down to its basics, and that simplicity compels audiences to consider their presumptions.
This is not an easy movie to see—or to recommend, either. Its rhythm can feel jerky, its deployment of sex aggressively provocative, and its tone can turn from ridiculous to sick making in an instant. It’s no wonder, then, that so many have emerged from it perplexed or even revolted. But for those willing to stick with it, Poor Things is a movie—no, more than that: it’s a provocation, a puzzle, and a philosophical inquiry in the form of surreal imagery and indelible performances.
Regardless of whether you think it’s brilliant or daft, this is one thing for certain: Poor Things is not the sort of film you forget. It lingers, burrows under your skin, and continues to reverberate long after the end credits have finished. That, on many levels, is the sign of cinema in its most brazen form—art that does not seek to please, but provoke.