‘The Birthday Party’ Locarno Review: Willem Dafoe Steals the Show in a Greek Tragedy of Excess

They made a movie about me,” Greek tycoon Marcos Timoleon (Willem Dafoe) tells his biographer, a journalist named Ian Forster (Joe Cole). “The Godfather?” asks Forster. “No,” Marcos replies, “one about a giant shark.” It’s 1975, and it’s obvious which film the powerful businessman is referring to. Played by the globe-trotting American actor, Timoleon is a barely disguised version of Aristotle Onassis: he owns a private island, sports similar glasses, and his personal history is almost identical to that of the legendary billionaire. In fact, the film begins with the death of his youngest son, Daniel, in a plane crash — something that also happened in Onassis’s family.

Years later, Timoleon is on his island preparing the birthday party that gives the film its title. It’s for his other child, Sofia (Vic Carmen Sonne, from The Girl With the Needle), now the sole heir but leading a rather wild and wayward life. Tormented by the loss of his favorite son, Timoleon clearly has some personal plan behind the lavish celebration, and with his trusted inner circle, he’s plotting something — though exactly what remains unclear.

The Birthday Party unfolds over the course of this decadent night among millionaires and their “parasites” (as the host himself calls them), filled with musical numbers, extravagant gifts, copious alcohol, and a eurotrash contingent that wastes no time getting drunk, stripping down, plunging into the pool, and indulging in other era-appropriate excesses. Beneath the surface, however, weightier matters are simmering. Emma Suárez plays Olivia, Sofia’s stepmother, on the verge of divorcing Marcos and negotiating her exit. Hidden paparazzi lurk, suitors circle the daughter, and secrets slowly bubble to the surface.

Directed by the Spanish filmmaker behind Window to the Sea — notably also shot in Greece with Suárez — and based on Panos Karnezis’s novel of the same name, The Birthday Party rests largely on the commanding presence of Dafoe, who seems to control every event around him. He spies on his family and guests, his grief shaping an eccentric plan for the night. But things don’t necessarily go as he imagined. Outside of Dafoe — who roams naked, sings, and dances with abandon — the film loses steam, bogging down in a muddle of accents, mediocre dialogue, and characters not interesting enough to carry the drama.

Elegantly shot — with striking cinematography — against a paradisiacal backdrop, the film has a slightly retro feel, reminiscent of those ’90s “Europuddings,” a term once used to describe multinational European co-productions that ultimately lose any distinctive local identity. The most compelling moments come when Marcos and Sofia are alone together — a character clearly inspired by Christina Onassis, whose chaotic life ended in Argentina in 1988 — and long-festering tensions rise to the surface.

Still, the film rarely springs fully to life beyond a few eccentric scenes, isolated moments, and the inevitable connections viewers will draw between the fiction and the real story. It’s worth seeing primarily to follow the ever-surprising career of Dafoe, who for over four decades has moved between Hollywood blockbusters and independent titles shot across the globe, often five or six a year. Whatever the project, Dafoe is always a pleasure to watch; his choices — his gestures, his silences, his sheer presence — invariably elevate a film. He doesn’t always save them — this is one such case — but he makes them more intriguing.