Peter Strickland is a mad man. If you are familiar with his work you'll know what I mean. His nuanced brand of vivid absurdism seems to have a tangible scent and taste to it, where every aspect is designed as sensory overload. This makes him a unique talent despite his overt influences - influences that stretch from giallo art house horror to early Lanthimos (even borrowing one of the Greek auteurs' main players, Ariane Labed for this latest effort). Velvet and satin textures dripping in ebullient color are the fetishistic clues that bring the viewer in on the subtle, often impenetrable themes that are at play. In the case of Flux Gourmet, what is most crucial is the investigation of psychological kinks which stoke the fires for artistic expression. Cronenberg also recently had something to say on the matter, only he used the body as an artistic vessel instead of the mind and its perversions. Though I admire Strickland's wicked little plots, I so frequently notice the fingerprints of others, plastered all over their shells, to where I have trouble appreciating them as original entities. Fortunately, there's always a certain aesthetic and thematic freshness exuding from the cinematography and writing that prevent them from becoming derivative.