By Erica Abeel

Ruben Östlund is a richly talented filmmaker who puts the world of outrageous privilege in his crosshairs.

Triangle of Sadness, directed by Ruben Östlund. Screening at Kendall Square Cinema and AMC Boston Common 19 starting October 13.

Arvin Kananian and Woody Harrelson in a scene from Triangle of Sadness.

In his comic satires Ruben Östlund has made it his project – mission, almost — to skewer the uber rich. At Cannes the Swedish director has twice netted the Palme d’Or, first for The Square, a send-up of European art world pretension. Now he’s won it for Triangle of Sadness, a fable about a luxury cruise that both figuratively and literally retches all over its cargo of entitled oligarchs. Cannes is endearingly predictable in its regard for work with a pointed political perspective — consider the fest’s reverence for the films of the Dardenne brothers about the most marginalized folks on the planet. Given this predilection, I suspect Triangle was crowned more for its saw-toothed attack on capitalist excess than for its art as film.

I approached Triangle (bowing here at the New York Film Festival) prepared to love it.  I’m still on board with Östlund’s fixation on class warfare, yet I came away from this latest with a sense of letdown. Yes, the now notorious barf and shit centerpiece lives up to the hype, and more. The barbed dialogue flies, usually hitting its mark. Prescreening I was already tickled by the promise of an alcoholic Marxist captain of a luxury yacht, played by — perfection! — Woody Harrelson, who always brings to the table a subversive lunacy.

But at two hours and 20 minutes Triangle runs long. Its three-part narrative structure feels both disjointed and flabby, while at moments its jackhammer style of pulverizing the baddies inspires a new respect for subtlety. The odd title — it means frown lines between the brows — seems only tangentially related to the story. Unless it also alludes to — a stretch — the Trilateral Commission, a club composed of corporate honchos and statesmen who critics accuse of running the world.

You gotta love the premise, though. Carl (Harris Dickinson) and Yaya (the late Charlbi Dean) are two beautiful people — she a hot influencer (of course Östlund would deride this dubious species), he a rising supermodel — who get a freebie to join a luxury cruise. Presumably Yaya will post about it. We first meet the couple during an amusing spat post dinner over who picks up the restaurant tab. Already Money is center stage, souring their budding romance. Ostlund is strong on visual comic shtick. As the couple duke it out, the hotel’s elevator keeps opening and shutting, so neither has the last word.

Part Two, the strongest of the triad, gleefully dissects the class structure on board the ship. The characters include the below-decks peons, among them a “toilet manager” and crew member, Abigail (Dolly de Leon), who will later resurface in a power switch. A head purser (Vicki Berlin) indoctrinates the staff in the art of never saying “No” to a passenger. “It’s always yes, Sir Yes, M’am,” no matter the request.

Captain Woody prefers to hang in his stateroom, brining himself in booze and Marxist musings. When he does finally appear at an ill-advised Captain’s Dinner, ignoring a brewing storm, Woody chows down on a burger and fries — “I’m no fan of fine dining.” The passengers, who will soon regret it, feast on overthought delicacies with emulsion of octopus sperm or some such.

Among the passengers — or, rather, cargo of human uglies — is a Russian capitalist who’s made a pile selling manure. A woman bitches to the staff that the ship’s sails are dirty — though no sails exist. My favorite is the bland husband, pillar of the community type, who tells Carl and Yaya that his business is “upholding American democracy.” What’s his product? “Hand grenades.”

Among the visual gags is Carl in his deck chair, chiseled pecs gleaming in the sun, in his lap a copy of Ulysses. A clueless woman orders a waitress to stop with the damn serving already and join her in the pool. “I command you to enjoy the moment!” As per the woman’s “command,” the entire staff is soon coerced into leaving their posts and cavorting in the sea below. The sequence is no less funny for being cruel.

Meanwhile, as the guests arrive in their designer threads for an orgy of fine dining, the churning seas point to churning kishkes and the coming mayhem. It’s hard to imagine a scene in all of cinema that captures sea sickness with such gusto. The sequence goes on and on and on – and then some – with projectile spraying, golden arcs, and floods from heaving innards. At some point the images on screen turn almost abstract, like a painting by Turner.

This pushing past excess and the discomfort zone is trademark Östlund. It may send some viewers stumbling from the theater. However, such scenes are not a gratuitous gross-out. The notion of excess chimes with Östlund’s critique of the wealth grab by a tiny few.

In Part Three (spoiler ahead) the survivors of the cruise wash up on a desert island. Unfortunately for viewers, Woody, the most delicious character, is not among the survivors. He comes across in a way as Östlund’s double, a shit-faced co-conspirator. The Captain is last seen reading from his memoirs as the ship goes down, bemoaning his own relative entitlement, along with the sins of the US:“My government murdered Martin Luther King” … “War became our most lucrative industry …”

The once lowly Abigail, who can fish and build fires, becomes chief purveyor of food, inverting the power structure. This is a cool concept but filmically lacks interest. It’s here Triangle loses its momentum. Much has been made of Dolly de Leon’s Abigail as the new center of power, paying back in kind those who have exploited and humiliated her. Again, it must have sounded better on paper.

Östlund is a richly talented filmmaker who puts the world of outrageous privilege in his crosshairs. Flawed though it may be — and why must a film be “perfect”? — Triangle remains a welcome addition to the Östlund canon. Having picked up tidbits about his next project — likely a demolition of the donor class — I’m prepared to love it.

Erica Abeel is a novelist, film and cultural critic, and former professor at CUNY. Her 2016 novel Wild Girls, about three women rebels of the ’50s, was an Oprah Magazine pick. Her journalism has appeared in the New York Times, Indiewire, and other major sites and national publications. A former dancer, when not writing she’s in a Pilates class or at the barre. Her new novel, The Commune, was recently published by Adelaide Books.