Something is unsettling about Satisfaction, not because it shocks in obvious ways, but because it does not offer simple answers. It stays in discomfort, in silence, in the spaces where language fails, and in doing so, it asks one of the most difficult questions a film can pose: what does consent really mean, and what happens when desire and trauma become impossible to separate?

Set between the isolation of the Greek isles and the restless energy of East London, Alex Burunova’s film follows Lola (Emma Laird: Brutalist), a young composer whose life appears, at least on the surface, to be moving forward. Yet from the very beginning, something is fractured. She cannot play the piano; she withdraws and drifts through her days beside her partner, Philip (Fionn Whitehead: Dunkirk, Black Mirror: Bandersnatch). Their relationship isn’t defined by arguments, but by something that says more than words ever could.

In Satisfaction lies a difficult and necessary confrontation with consent. There is a moment when Lola, intoxicated, kisses Philip. What follows is deeply unsettling: she loses consciousness and only later comes to realise she has been violated. The film doesn’t try to turn this into a simple story; it stays with the confusion many survivors experience – the harmful idea that desire, even if unclear or momentary, can be mistaken for consent.

Consent is not implied; it is not something that can be assumed from proximity, attraction, or vulnerability. The film insists on this truth, even as it explores how easily it can be distorted by others, and sometimes by the survivors themselves. But Satisfaction is not only about violation; it is also about desire, and the complicated, often contradictory ways it shapes our lives. Lola’s longing moves in different directions, towards a woman she once loved, towards Philip, and later towards Elena, the magnetic stranger she meets on the island.

Her connection with Elena, played by the extraordinary Zar Amir (Holy Spider), is engaging and interesting. There is something almost elemental about their encounters; Elena’s presence awakens something in Lola that feels freeing and destabilising. And yet, even here, the film does not give any resolution. When Elena is brought into Lola and Philip’s relationship, what could be framed as liberation instead becomes another site of tension. The idea of a threesome, of expanding desire beyond traditional boundaries, is not treated as inherently empowering or destructive. Instead, it becomes another question: where does desire lead us, and at what point does it begin to fracture rather than fulfil?

Burunova is interested in this intersection between wanting and understanding, between freedom and consequence. The film shows, in some ways, that desire, when shaped by unresolved trauma, can become something else entirely: a search not for connection, but for meaning, for control, for a way to feel whole again. This emotional complexity is carried almost entirely by Emma Laird, whose performance as Lola is mind-blowing. There is so much honesty and exposure to her work that it feels almost intrusive, as though we are witnessing something we are not meant to see. What I appreciate about her acting is that she pulls you into her character’s inner world. You don’t just watch her emotions, you really feel them.

Fionn Whitehead, as Philip, offers a subtle and equally compelling counterpoint. His performance is often unreadable, which adds to the sense of unease. Philip is not presented as a clear antagonist or ally; he exists in the same ambiguity that runs through the film. His presence raises uncomfortable questions about complicity, emotional distance, and the ways people can fail each other without fully understanding how.

Satisfaction does not resolve Lola’s pain, nor does it neatly define her future; it asks whether a peaceful existence is even possible when one’s sense of self has been so deeply shaken. Can desire be reclaimed? Can intimacy exist without fear? Can healing happen without fully understanding what has been lost? Burunova does not answer these questions; she leaves them with the audience, trusting us to sit with them. And perhaps that is the film’s greatest strength. It does not tell us what to think; it simply asks us to look, to truly look, at the complexities of consent, desire, and the fragile process of becoming whole again.

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Written by Maggie Gogler

_{View of the Arts is an online publication dedicated to film, music, and the arts, with a strong focus on the Asian entertainment industry. As we continue to grow, we aim to deepen our coverage of Asian music while remaining committed to exploring and celebrating creativity across the global arts landscape.}