Palfi’s aesthetic evokes the work of fabulists like Tim Burton, Terry Gilliam, and Jan Svankmajer, but he’s actually a more fluid filmmaker than those three; his approach is less dioramic and more breathlessly associative, more thoroughly surrealist. He rarely showcases his moments of genius, instead trolling deeper into unconscious impulses and visions. And though his decadent, dystopic, life-of-the-decaying-flesh worldview feels second hand and pat, his insatiable camera belies a hunger for life, a celebration of visual possibility. It’s this joy in creation that makes the film so compelling even as it transmits a steady, quite literal stream of bodily refuse and produce. Judging by sheer vomitous, bloody, ejaculative volume, Palfi’s second feature is easily the grossest film of the year. In terms of shot-making, it’s also one of the most impressive.