I suspect, dear readers, that few among you would relish the dreadful chore of weighing the value of your loved ones against one another. I consider myself fortunate that the fates have whittled my emotional burdens down to a manageable quantity -- my mother and father have long since slipped into the void and the only object of my devotion, besides the very digital publication before you, is my dear fiancé Penny Dee. I lack the imagination to conjure the scene that would transpire if anyone were to compromise her comfort and instead can only state that I admire the composure with which the entire Murphy clan conducts themselves when faced with widespread household disturbances.

Dr. Steven Murphy (Colin Farrell) is a heart surgeon with a tidy little family. His wife Anna (Nicole Kidman) is a fellow doctor, his son (Sunny Suljic) excels at maths while his daughter (Raffey Cassidy) shows promise on the artier side of the academic spectrum. Dr. Murphy also serves as a surrogate father to a fatherless young boy named Martin (Barry Keoghan) and provides him with the presence and presents that he might have had with a proper set of parents.

One day, the young Murphy boy finds his legs in a rubbery state and is suddenly incapable of standing of his own volition. It is here that Martin unfolds a fiendish plot that he’s clearly been working at for some time -- one by one, Steven’s family members will lose the ability to walk, the ability to eat and will ultimately lose hold of their very lives. The only way to prevent this outcome is for Steven to take the life of one of them himself before all three perish. 

At first, Steven and Anna adopt the sort of studious approach that one would hope a pair of medical professionals would take, subjecting first their son and then their daughter to rigorous medical scrutiny, exhausting any and all options before considering any dramatic therapeutic alternatives. But once it becomes clear that they are powerless, you don’t see them flailing their arms about and descending into absolute hysterics. They soldier on with a stiff upper lip, succumbing to tears on only the rarest and most private of occasions. Even when the bleakest of outcomes seems inevitable, each Murphy member pleads their case for continued existence to Steven and, when the time comes, they all submit themselves willingly for the slaughter, just the way a family should behave in a crisis of this sort. It’s a bit like Sophie’s Choice but without all the blubbering.

While the Murphy family may handle all this with poise, it could prove to be a bothersome experience for some audience members. Besides the lurking possibility of matricide and filicide, The Killing of a Sacred Deer boasts a number of other profound discomforts, including a dread-inducing score, appallingly frank sexual discourse and un-simulated footage of open heart surgery. Add to this the considerable talents of Mr. Keoghan, who turns even the most mundane of activities into a disturbing spectacle, and you’ve got yourself a fairly tense evening at the cinema. 

Personally, I find that nothing clears out the old cranial cavity quite like two solid hours of unrelenting psychological pressure. The Killing of a Sacred Deer, a medically-minded piece, provides precisely that brand of catharsis, resulting in a film that may be as physically beneficial as it is emotionally instructional. 

The Killing of a Sacred Deer runs 121 minutes and is rated R for disturbing, violent and sexual content, some graphic nudity and language.