The critical response to Yorgos Lanthimos' The Killing of a Sacred Deer has been a faintly damning / begrudgingly positive scrawl of evocations, but my response is the one I'm most concerned about. I very much enjoyed its stubborn, strangulated acceleration. The pink neon "Iphigenia" clue falls more than halfway into the film, five or six scenes before the crazed sacrifice sequence. The sickly resonances align, Ligeti whispers over the end credits, done. The wounds feel real.