’s black-comedic deadpan never slips as director/co-writer Yorgos Lanthimos introduces the hermetic world of safety and comfort the father and mother (Michele Valley) have created for their son and eldest and youngest daughters (Aggeliki Papoulia and Mary Tsoni, respectively), all now adults. The lessons the mother records on the tapes provide new meanings for words for anything that exists outside the high fence that bounds the estate, the life-long limits of the children’s known world. “Sea” describes a stuffed chair with wooden arms, like the one in their living room; when the sweet youngest daughter needs the salt, she asks her mom to pass the telephone. They believe that the Frank Sinatra albums their father sometimes plays in the evening were recorded by their grandfather for them. When a plane flies overhead or a house cat sneaks onto the grounds, the father and mother improvise an explanation, a reaction, a way to preserve and perpetuate the illusion of their perfect world at home and the unspeakable savagery of the world just over the threshold of the gate barring the driveway. It’s all carefully worked out. It’s all fantastically, hilariously absurd. Except when it’s just plain disturbing.