Sick of Myself

There is a specific, itchy kind of desperation that comes from sitting across a dinner table from someone you supposedly love while they recount their latest triumph to a captive audience. We’ve all felt that tiny, poisonous prick of jealousy, but most of us have the basic human decency to swallow it with a sip of wine and a fake smile. Signe, the protagonist of Kristoffer Borgli’s razor-sharp Sick of Myself, doesn’t have that filter. She doesn’t just want a seat at the table; she wants to be the centerpiece, even if she has to bleed all over the tablecloth to get there.

I watched this on a Tuesday night while nursing a mild caffeine headache, and the sound of Signe crunching on illicit Russian pills made my own skull throb in sympathy. It’s the kind of movie that makes you want to wash your face with industrial-strength soap the moment the credits roll.

The Competitive Art of Being a Victim

Set in a cool, clinical Oslo that feels like it was decorated entirely by people who find color offensive, the film introduces us to Signe (Kristine Kujath Thorp) and Thomas (Eirik Sæther). They are quite possibly the most toxic cinematic pairing since George and Martha, but with better outfits and less booze. Thomas is a rising star in the contemporary art world, a man who literally steals expensive furniture to turn it into "installations." He’s a narcissist, but he’s a successful one, which is the only kind the world tolerates.

Signe, trapped in his shadow and working a dead-end job at a coffee shop, finds her "lightbulb" moment when she helps a woman bleeding out after a dog attack. For a few minutes, she’s the center of the universe. People look at her. They care. She realizes that in our current cultural economy, victimhood is a more stable currency than talent.

Kristine Kujath Thorp gives a performance that is genuinely brave, mostly because she is willing to be utterly, irredeemably pathetic. She tracks down a banned skin-altering drug called Lidexol on the dark web—because of course it’s Russian and of course it’s dangerous—and begins a regimen of self-destruction. Watching her face slowly erupt into a map of scars and welts is a slow-motion car crash that Borgli (who also wrote the script) refuses to look away from. It’s a drama that wears the skin of a thriller, and the pacing is so relentless that you forget to breathe.

Body Horror for the Instagram Age

While the film is marketed as an "unromantic comedy," the humor is so dark it’s practically obsidian. The makeup effects by Izzi Galindo are startlingly effective, turning Signe’s face into a grotesque mask that she wears with a perverse kind of pride. There’s a scene where she’s being interviewed for a major magazine, her head wrapped in bandages like a high-fashion mummy, and you realize that Signe is essentially the final boss of main character syndrome.

The film hits differently in our current era of "trauma dumping" and the constant performance of the self on social media. Borgli captures the 2020s zeitgeist better than almost any director I’ve seen recently. He understands that we live in a moment where the worst thing you can be is ignored. The "thriller" aspect comes from the escalating stakes: How far will she go? Will Thomas see through the ruse, or is he too busy admiring his own stolen-chair sculptures?

Eirik Sæther, who is actually a contemporary artist in real life, plays Thomas with a perfect blend of pretension and oblivious cruelty. Their relationship isn't built on love, but on a mutual need to be the most interesting person in the room. When Signe starts getting more attention for her "mysterious illness" than he does for his art, the domestic warfare turns truly ugly. It’s a fascinating, if revolting, look at how we use other people's pity to prop up our own crumbling egos.

A Mirror for Our Ugliest Selves

What makes Sick of Myself stay with you—long after you’ve winced at the sight of Signe’s disintegrating skin—is how it refuses to offer a moral high ground. We want to judge her, but the film constantly reminds us of the world that created her. The fashion industry, the art world, and the media are all complicit, salivating over her "bravery" because it makes for a good headline. It’s a biting satire of the way we commodify suffering, turning genuine pain into "content."

The cinematography by Benjamin Loeb (who also shot the neon-soaked Mandy) gives Oslo a sterile, lonely beauty. Everything is perfectly framed, which only makes Signe’s physical decay look more intrusive and wrong. There’s no nostalgia here, no "instant classic" posturing—just a brutal, contemporary look at the lengths we’ll go to for a like, a follow, or a sympathetic nod from a stranger.

It’s a tough watch, sure, but it’s also undeniably vital. In an era where every second film feels like it was scrubbed clean by a corporate focus group, this movie is a jagged, infectious piece of work that dares to be genuinely unpleasant. It doesn't ask you to like Signe; it just asks you to acknowledge that, on your worst day, you might understand her.

Ultimately, Sick of Myself is a masterclass in cringeworthy tension. It’s the kind of film that makes you want to delete your Instagram and go live in a cave, far away from the prying eyes of the "cultural elite." It’s mean, it’s messy, and it’s arguably the most honest depiction of modern vanity ever put to film. If you have the stomach for it, it’s a trip you won’t soon forget—even if you really, really want to.