Thatcher-era Britain: gloss on top, division underneath, with ad men like the Saatchis selling happiness like toothpaste and helping make politicians the product. Robinson’s film still feels contemporary, despite the 80s chintz. The sting is timeless: advertising turns doubt into desire before sending you the bill.
The premise is gloriously wrong. An ad man’s ethical rot becomes literal: a talking boil with a face and a moustache sprouts on his shoulder and starts heckling him. It’s disgusting, yes, but it’s also oddly lucid about how the job eats your brain while you’re busy calling it “creativity”.
Richard E. Grant is the main event. He doesn’t just unravel; he detonates — flipping from fury to panic to pitch-man sincerity in the same breath, all wild eyes and clenched charm. The film is messy and occasionally lumpy, but it’s sharply written, properly funny, and bracing in the best way.