The Death of Stalin is a miserable uninhibited sty hand-fashioned with an eo ipso diagnosis—up to, bleak and involuntary possession of posture and pate. Firstly, lining its façade rather than its skittish satire, like a vicarious chariot, it shows it is hard foremost to let the viewer believe it is not just a deliberate sketch or mock-up, as opposed to art. Its borderline treatment of human life is gullible and narcotized, sodden by salted wounds, which are left to close, to learn to weep, to weep their own—in precisely that missing order—when, in actuality, everything just evanesced into thin air, into post-karmic neoplasm.
It twists and jerks the arm of unsalvageable bogies and ancient travesties and coteries; I am felt holding hands with ringleaders the whole way through, with, indeed, great big assurance. Its prodigious sets and transcendent falter impart the niggling ticks letting moribund ethos as object—showing the ideology of a jack-sum torpedo, that is, something inspired and profuse muted by the ocean. It is the homonymic equivalent of some paroxysmal elbow cabal picking away at every last ineffable nest, like a poisoned amble which could not—its insuperable lapse—be its own. Sir Simon Russell Beale behaves and resembles a puffy flog of distended oral suspicion, Steve Buscemi a horny farmer-provocateur, and together they break unarmed jouissance to smithereens.
