A film review by Maz Jardon
“Beautiful tragedy” might seem like an oxymoronic statement, but one that holds multitudes of truth for Western aesthetics, from the inclusion of Little Nell’s malady in Charles Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop as synonymous with her beauty and purity, to the recent trend of “Sick-Lit” Young Adult novels that blend medical drama narratives with teen romance themes. What emerges from these depictions is a distorted mirror image of the reader both seeking and being subjected to, the social power of being a medical spectacle. Kristoffer Borgli’s debut feature film Sick of Myself comments on the trend of reflexive voyeurism-exhibitionism by countering the notion of a Romantic affliction with grotesqueness and a liberal dose of body horror. Scathing in commentary and relentless in gore, Sick of Myself (2022) provides a riotous narrative layered with a critique on postmodern loneliness, the economy of sympathy, and the mirage of corporate inclusivity.
Sick… follows 20-something Signe (Kristine Kujath Thorp) and her tragi-comedic attempts to eclipse her boyfriend’s artistic success by attracting sympathy through medically induced self-harm. Sick premiered on May 22nd, 2022 at the 75th Annual Cannes Film Festival but would not receive a global release until 2023, to largely positive, albeit polarising, reviews.

Opening with a scene of Signe and her boyfriend Thomas (Eirik Sæther) at an upscale restaurant competing for attention with their respective techniques – Signe, pretending it is her birthday, and Thomas, pretending he is rich and successful – the film’s premise is set. The up-the-stakes dynamics of the plot is affirmed when Thomas flees the restaurant, with a stolen $1000 bottle of wine in hand, and is chased by their waiter. Later, Signe witnesses a near-fatal dog attack and overcomes the Bystander Effect to call an ambulance and care for the woman’s wounds until the ambulance arrives. During her walk home, when onlookers see her covered in blood and assume she is the victim, she realises she can receive far more attention from sympathy than gratitude. The narrative escalates, much like how an untreated dog bite festers.
Continue reading “Sick of Myself: a Manic Satire on Spectatorship, Vomiting Blood, and the Icarian Limits of Identity Politics”