Sick of Myself isn’t just a title that makes me sing Olivia Rodrigo, it’s an insane story that has no problems being unrealistic and ridiculous in getting its message across. The message itself is a relatively superficial one, of narcissism, and feeling owed success for a self inflicted illness. Like any good foreign language film, it takes you out of your mother tongue and gives you a full new identity where you feel like you’ve only spoken Norwegian.
Signe lives a normal life, striving for something more, while doing virtually nothing about it. We start off with a perspective shifting dog attack, seeing how much attention someone can gain from a traumatic event, rather than the positive recognition of career progression or personal achievement. Signe lives with her boyfriend, Thomas, a pretentious, mildly successful kleptomaniac and artist. While she once again retells her heroic story of the dog attack, Thomas interrupts, reminding the group of his career changing showcase in a big gallery. We continue the conversation with Signe devaluing it in front of their friends, graciously reminding everyone it's not actually in the gallery, but a popup in the city centre, so not that impressive. Her feigned nut allergy at the afterparty dinner pulls focus and causes chaos around the table, furthering her ideology of negative attention.
This goes a slight step further as Signe sees a news article about a harmful Russian drug which has caused horrific skin issues to those who have been using it. One dog attack door closes, and a Russian drug abuse window swings open. With her hands on the pills, she pours them down her throat like someone jawline training with chewing gum. The overdose on the drug speeds up the skin conditions, developing the small rash into a bloated facial form, prompting Thomas to bring her to hospital. Signe relishes in the attention given to her by doctors and friends around her, while resenting her father and friend for not visiting. Her anger manifests in a sexual fantasy of her funeral and the refusal of their entry. This is the second departure from reality we get with this story, the first being a brutally honest and impressively accurate diagnosis of Signe’s condition when she is first admitted to the hospital. The first time this happens, we’re thrown off, ripped out of the story into a ridiculous world. Although, the world we’re in has been setup in a way that makes every digression annoyingly believable. Some more examples of these is Signe becoming a best selling author and having her skin stuck to the table, having to pull it off just to lift her head.
Our descent into further chaos happens when Signe starts to feel symptoms beyond just the external skin issues. She begins to have the shakes and eventually, coughing up blood. The deceptions of not only Signe, but the film itself, make you question if these symptoms are put on for attention, manifestations of her guilt, genuine side effects of this drug or another pure nonsense side quest. We leave the story with a collapsed Signe, arrested boyfriend and empty apartment. The future looks bright.
This film portrays itself very plainly, nothing flashy going on with the camera or audio. It presents the events as objectively as it can, while the story presents itself as disjointed and “fucky” as it can. I appreciate the technical work done in the makeup department as Signe transforms from normal human woman to self inflicted bloater from The Last of Us. In the interim of Signe’s transformation, she is searching out modelling gigs, with her skin condition giving her an interesting edge, something to tick a diversity box. The makeup is done in a way that makes the ailment look almost bionic or purposeful in its design. The bran hires Signe to pose for an inclusive fashion and bedsheet brand, promoting “one size fits all” ideology, Regardless of who you are. They hire diverse models in Signe and a woman who was born without a full developed hand. The diversity of the models is only in their “abnormality” and not in their genetics or build as they are both thin, blonde, women who are objectively beautiful. The clothes they are draped in could be mistaken for the inclusive bedsheets, showcasing the one size of the clothing. The styling of the clothing is different for every body type so while the garment itself may be inclusive for those with a bigger build, it is not inclusive in the streetwear, oversized look that they are promoting with their campaign. The location choice of the shoot also stands out as they pose in a museum, surrounded by history, making a claim that they are either making history, deserving a place among the exhibits or rejecting history and stating that they are the future of clothing. All that to say, this was bitterly pretentious from every angle and wonderfully orchestrated as a scene. Especially with the blind assistant tasked with describing Signe’s condition to the emergency services and the makeup artist being carried off by two people at the sight of blood while Signe lies on the ground, with people looking on in horror.
Sick of Myself is a film that satraises narcissism and fame in a playful and humorous way. I don’t feel contempt from the filmmakers at the topics they’re exploring, more a hyperbolic comment on how we live and what motivates us socially. I am excited to see more from this filmmaker and in general, I am a fan of the country of Norway, keeping pumping those sassy little films about silly little people doing stupid little things. Thank you.
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