Note: This article is based on verified episode details, creator commentary, and reputable entertainment and religion-media reporting. It is fully rewritten for original publication and contains no copied source text.

For a show famous for turning sacred cows into hamburger, South Park has always had a surprisingly complicated relationship with religion. Trey Parker and Matt Stone have mocked Catholics, Mormons, Scientologists, televangelists, cult leaders, miracle chasers, and just about anyone who brings a clipboard to your front door. So, naturally, plenty of viewers assumed the two creators were atheists. After all, when your cartoon has already put Jesus on cable television and sent Satan to a costume party, people tend to make theological guesses.

But that assumption helped inspire one of the show’s sharpest belief-system takedowns: the Season 10 two-parter “Go God Go” and “Go God Go XII.” The episodes do not simply make fun of atheism. They make fun of the human habit of turning any worldviewreligious, anti-religious, scientific, political, or fandom-basedinto a tribal identity war. In classic South Park fashion, the message arrives wrapped in time travel, Richard Dawkins, classroom evolution debates, and Eric Cartman’s unbearable need to play the Nintendo Wii.

The Misunderstanding: Everyone Thought Parker and Stone Were Atheists

The idea behind “Go God Go” came partly from public confusion over Parker and Stone’s own beliefs. Because South Park had spent years skewering organized religion, many fans and commentators assumed the creators must be firm members of the atheist club. The reality was more slippery. Parker and Stone have often resisted being filed under any simple label. Their comedy is not built around defending one ideology. It is built around attacking smugness, hypocrisy, certainty, and anyone who seems too pleased with himself.

That distinction matters. “Go God Go” was not written because Parker and Stone suddenly wanted to become Sunday school teachers. It was written because they noticed that atheists, especially the louder public voices of the mid-2000s, could be just as self-righteous as the religious figures the show had already lampooned. In other words, South Park did not switch teams. It widened the target list.

The timing was perfect. Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion had become a major cultural talking point in 2006, and “New Atheism” was everywhere in debates about science, education, politics, and religion. The public conversation was not quiet, polite, or wearing socks with sandals. It was loud, combative, and ready-made for South Park.

What Happens in “Go God Go”?

“Go God Go” first aired on November 1, 2006, as the twelfth episode of South Park Season 10. On the surface, it begins as two unrelated stories. At South Park Elementary, Ms. Garrison is forced to teach evolution and reacts with furious resistance. Meanwhile, Cartman is obsessed with the upcoming release of the Nintendo Wii. Because waiting three weeks is apparently a human rights violation, Cartman decides to freeze himself so he can wake up on launch day.

Only Cartman could turn impatience into a science-fiction disaster. His homemade cryogenic plan goes wrong, and he wakes up more than 500 years in the future. Instead of finding a shiny new Wii, he finds a world where religion has disappeared and atheist factions are at war. The future is not a peaceful paradise of reason. It is a battlefield where groups with nearly identical beliefs are still killing each other over labels, language, and the “great question.”

Back in the present, Richard Dawkins appears as a guest teacher and becomes romantically involved with Ms. Garrison. Their relationship becomes the absurd engine that reshapes the future. Dawkins, who is portrayed less as a scientist than as a pompous anti-religious crusader, helps create the Godless world Cartman later stumbles into. But the joke is not that science is bad. The joke is that people can turn even reason into a costume and then fight over who wears it correctly.

Why the Episode Is Theological, Even When It Mocks Theology

Calling “Go God Go” a theological episode may sound strange because the story spends so much time ridiculing atheism. But theology is not just about sermons, saints, and stained glass. It is about ultimate questions: What do people believe? How do beliefs shape behavior? What happens when certainty becomes identity? Can a society remove religion and still keep all the same tribal instincts?

That is where the episode becomes smarter than its dirtiest jokes. The future atheist factions in “Go God Go XII” have no God, no church, and no traditional religion. Yet they still behave religiously. They chant. They divide into sects. They treat their group names as sacred. They turn Richard Dawkins into a nearly mythic founding figure. The vocabulary changes, but the pattern remains familiar.

This is one of Parker and Stone’s favorite comedic moves: separate belief from behavior. They are less interested in whether a doctrine is true than in whether believers become unbearable about it. In “Go God Go,” the problem is not atheism itself. The problem is dogmatism wearing a lab coat and shouting, “Science damn you!”

The Richard Dawkins Parody: Brutal, Messy, and Very South Park

Richard Dawkins was not chosen randomly. By 2006, he had become one of the most visible public critics of religion. His arguments against belief in God were widely discussed, praised, challenged, and mocked. For South Park, he represented a perfect satirical figure: brilliant, famous, controversial, and associated with a style of argument that many critics found condescending.

The show does not offer a careful academic rebuttal to Dawkins. That would be a different program, probably on PBS, probably with fewer talking otters. Instead, South Park caricatures the tone of militant certainty. Dawkins is shown as someone whose rationalism becomes its own form of arrogance. Ms. Garrison, after converting to atheism, does not become wiser or kinder. She simply changes which side she is obnoxious on.

That detail is important. The episode suggests that a belief system does not automatically improve a person. A cruel person can become religious and remain cruel. A smug person can become atheist and remain smug. A selfish person can travel 500 years into the future and still only care about a video game console. Yes, Cartman is the control group in this grand theological experiment, and the results are not encouraging.

The Wii Plot Is Not a DistractionIt Is the Secret Ingredient

One reason “Go God Go” works is that it refuses to become a lecture. Parker and Stone reportedly found the atheism material difficult because it risked becoming preachy. The Cartman-and-Wii storyline saves the episode from floating away into abstract debate. It gives the plot a ridiculous emotional engine. Cartman does not care about God, evolution, Dawkins, or the future of civilization. He cares about getting his hands on Nintendo’s newest console.

That childish obsession makes the episode funnier and more human. While adults argue about the origin of life, Cartman is conducting the dumbest possible experiment in delayed gratification. The result is a brilliant contrast: the grandest questions in philosophy sit next to the smallest tantrum in consumer culture. It is theology versus toy fever, and somehow both sides lose.

The timing also made the joke land harder. The Nintendo Wii launched in North America later that month, and excitement around the console was enormous. Cartman’s impatience exaggerated a real cultural mood. Anyone who remembers the Wii launch remembers the strange panic around finding one in stores. It was the closest many suburban families came to a mythic quest, except the sword was a motion controller and the dragon was a sold-out Best Buy shelf.

What “Go God Go XII” Adds to the Argument

The second episode, “Go God Go XII,” aired on November 8, 2006, and expands the future-war satire. Cartman discovers three major atheist factions: the United Atheist Alliance, the United Atheist League, and the Allied Atheist Alliance, which includes highly evolved sea otters. Their conflict is absurd because their differences are ridiculously small. Their violence is not caused by belief in God. It is caused by the same old human machinery: pride, identity, control, and the need to be absolutely right.

The genius of the episode is that it does not argue that religion is good because atheists can be bad. That would be too simple. Instead, it argues that removing religion does not automatically remove the human instincts that often make religion dangerous. People can still form tribes. People can still worship leaders. People can still turn words into weapons. People can still be complete maniacs about cafeteria tables.

Near the end, the future changes after Cartman disrupts the relationship between Dawkins and Garrison. The atheist war disappears, but the world is not magically perfect. The larger joke remains: humans will always find something to fight about. If it is not religion, it may be politics. If it is not politics, it may be science. If it is not science, it may be which superhero movie “ruined cinema.” Civilization is resourceful that way.

How This Fits Into South Park’s Long History With Religion

“Go God Go” makes more sense when viewed alongside other religion-themed South Park episodes. “All About Mormons” turns Mormon history into a singalong explanation while still portraying the Mormon family as unusually kind. “Trapped in the Closet” attacks Scientology with unusually direct factual parody. “Red Hot Catholic Love” skewers Catholic scandal and institutional denial. “Bloody Mary” mocks miracle culture. Even “The Passion of the Jew” turns a blockbuster religious film into a story about guilt, fandom, and mob behavior.

Across these episodes, Parker and Stone are rarely saying, “This group is wrong, and that group is right.” Their recurring point is sharper: people become ridiculous when they stop questioning themselves. Faith can become ridiculous. Skepticism can become ridiculous. Politics can become ridiculous. Celebrity worship can become ridiculous. The moment a group treats doubt as betrayal, South Park starts warming up the flamethrower.

Why Fans Still Debate the Episode

Fans continue to discuss “Go God Go” because it is not easy to reduce to one clean message. Religious viewers may see it as a rare episode that criticizes atheist arrogance. Atheist viewers may see it as a messy but useful warning against turning skepticism into superiority. Comedy fans may simply enjoy Cartman being punished by the universe for not waiting three weeks. All of these readings can exist at once.

The episode also arrived during a cultural moment when debates about evolution, classroom science, intelligent design, and religion in public life were especially intense in the United States. That gives the story extra texture. Ms. Garrison’s resistance to evolution is absurd, but the atheist future is also absurd. The episode refuses to let either side feel fully comfortable. That is often when South Park is at its best: not balanced in a polite way, but offensive in every direction until nobody gets to sit smugly in the balcony.

The Real Target: Certainty Without Humility

The most useful way to read “Go God Go” is as a satire of certainty without humility. Parker and Stone are not asking viewers to abandon belief, science, religion, or skepticism. They are asking viewers to notice what happens when any idea becomes an excuse to stop listening. The episode’s future atheists do not fight because they lack information. They fight because they are convinced their faction owns the final answer.

That is why the line “no one single answer is ever the answer” captures the spirit of the two-parter. It sounds almost gentle by South Park standards, which means it is practically a stained-glass window. The show is not endorsing mushy relativism. It is mocking the fantasy that one slogan, one system, one book, one ideology, or one angry celebrity intellectual can solve the messy business of being human.

Why the Episode Still Feels Relevant Today

Nearly two decades later, “Go God Go” still feels current because online culture has made ideological team sports even louder. People do not merely disagree anymore; they brand themselves by disagreement. Every platform has factions, sacred phrases, forbidden phrases, purity tests, and miniature holy wars. The labels have changed, but the behavior is very familiar.

That is why the atheist factions in the episode are funny beyond the specific Dawkins-era context. They resemble any group that begins with a reasonable idea and ends with people screaming over the exact wording of the club name. The joke applies to internet fandoms, political subcultures, wellness movements, tech evangelists, anti-tech evangelists, and probably at least three group chats you regret joining.

“Go God Go” also reminds viewers that satire does not have to choose a comforting side. Parker and Stone’s comedy often frustrates people because it resists becoming propaganda. It can make a valid point in the least diplomatic way possible. It can also bury that point under bodily fluids, screaming, and sea otters. That mix is not accidental. It is the show’s method: make the audience laugh first, then make them wonder why the joke hit a nerve.

Experiences Related to the Topic: Watching “Go God Go” After Everyone Assumes They Know Your Beliefs

One of the most relatable parts of the story behind “Go God Go” is not the theology, the time travel, or even Cartman’s Wii addiction. It is the experience of being misread. Parker and Stone were placed into a box by audiences who thought they understood them: if you mock religion, you must be atheist; if you mock atheism, you must be religious; if you mock everyone, you must be impossible at dinner parties. That last one may be partly true, but the larger point stands.

Many people know what it feels like to have others assign them a belief system based on one opinion. Criticize a church scandal, and someone assumes you hate religion. Defend a religious person from lazy mockery, and someone assumes you are preaching. Question a scientific claim, and someone thinks you reject science. Support science, and someone thinks you have no room for mystery, meaning, or spirituality. Human beings love shortcuts, and labels are the cheapest shortcuts in the store.

That is why “Go God Go” can feel oddly personal. Beneath the absurdity is a familiar social experience: the pressure to join a team. Penn Jillette’s disappointment, as reported in discussions around the episode’s creation, is funny because it sounds like fandom language. It is not just “What do you believe?” It is “Why are you not on our side?” The episode turns that pressure into a cartoon future where everyone has chosen sides so completely that they have forgotten what the argument was supposed to be about.

Viewers who revisit the episode today may notice that Cartman is almost spiritually pure in his selfishness. He does not pretend to care about truth. He does not posture about morality. He wants a Wii. That makes him awful, but also strangely clarifying. Around him, adults and future civilizations dress up their desires in noble language: science, truth, peace, progress. Cartman just wants what he wants. The contrast makes everyone else look a little more ridiculous.

There is also an experience many longtime South Park fans recognize: laughing at a joke, then realizing the joke is partly aimed at you. A religious viewer may laugh at Dawkins being pompous, then remember how easily religious communities can become tribal. An atheist viewer may laugh at Ms. Garrison’s creationist ignorance, then wince at the future factions chanting like zealots. A gamer may laugh at Cartman’s impatience, then remember refreshing a checkout page for a console, phone, graphics card, or concert ticket like it contained the secret to eternal life.

That layered discomfort is why the episode has lasted. It is not the cleanest South Park story, and some of its jokes are deliberately crude even by the show’s standards. But it captures something durable about belief: humans rarely stop at ideas. We build identities around them. We form groups. We invent enemies. We create slogans. Then we act shocked when the next group does exactly the same thing with different words.

In the end, the experience of “Go God Go” is the experience of being reminded that certainty can be intoxicating. Whether someone is holding a holy book, a science book, or a Wii remote, the temptation is the same: to believe that one object, one answer, or one side will finally make everything simple. Parker and Stone’s answer is rude, funny, and strangely wise: beware of anyone who says the argument is over. Also, maybe do not freeze yourself in the mountains because Nintendo has a release schedule.

Conclusion

“Go God Go” and “Go God Go XII” remain standout South Park episodes because they turn a misunderstanding about Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s beliefs into a bigger satire about certainty, tribalism, and the human need to belong to the winning side. The episodes are theological not because they defend religion, but because they ask what replaces religion when humans still crave dogma. By pairing Richard Dawkins, evolution debates, atheist sectarian warfare, and Cartman’s desperate quest for a Nintendo Wii, Parker and Stone created a story that is ridiculous on the surface and surprisingly sharp underneath.

When Jodie Foster recommends a movie, most people probably expect something elegant, psychologically rich, and draped in prestige. Maybe a moody European classic. Maybe a razor-sharp drama with devastating subtext. Maybe something that requires tea, silence, and a thoughtful stare out the window afterward.

Instead, Foster famously named Team America: World Police as one of the movies everyone should watch at least once. Yes, that movie. The outrageous 2004 puppet satire from Trey Parker and Matt Stone. The one with marionettes, musical numbers, exploding landmarks, political mockery, and the cinematic confidence of a flamethrower in a fireworks store.

It is a recommendation so unexpected that it almost feels like a prank. But the more you sit with it, the more it makes perfect sense. Foster has spent decades proving she is one of Hollywood’s smartest and most serious performers. That is exactly why her affection for a movie as gleefully ridiculous as Team America matters. It reminds audiences of something easy to forget in the age of carefully curated taste: great artists do not live on solemnity alone. Sometimes they also need something absurd enough to short-circuit the brain and make them laugh until they wheeze.

And that is the secret magic of this recommendation. It is not just a celebrity tossing out a random title. It is a sharp, Oscar-winning actor quietly making the case that comedy, satire, and full-throttle nonsense deserve respect too.

Why Jodie Foster’s Movie Pick Surprised So Many People

Part of the fascination comes from the contrast. Foster’s public image has long been associated with intelligence, control, discipline, and gravitas. She is the kind of actor audiences connect with films like The Silence of the Lambs, The Accused, Contact, Nell, and more recently, acclaimed work in Nyad and True Detective: Night Country. Her screen presence often suggests moral seriousness, emotional complexity, and an almost forensic attention to character.

So when someone with that profile says the movie everyone should watch is a wildly profane puppet comedy, people understandably do a double take. It is the cinematic equivalent of discovering your strictest teacher secretly loves monster truck rallies and novelty socks.

But that surprise is exactly what makes the moment so revealing. Foster’s pick cuts through the stale idea that “good taste” must always look respectable. In reality, people with the deepest knowledge of art often appreciate the strange stuff most enthusiastically. They know craft can hide under chaos. They know satire can say more in one outrageous gag than a dozen self-important speeches. And they know laughter is not the opposite of intelligence. In many cases, it is proof of it.

The recommendation that sparked headlines

The quote took off because it was delightfully specific. Foster did not vaguely say she enjoys comedy. She singled out Team America: World Police as essential viewing. Not “fun.” Not “underrated.” Essential. That one word transformed a funny answer into a cultural mini-event. Suddenly, movie fans were revisiting the film, debating whether she was joking, and realizing she probably was not. Or rather, she was joking, but she also meant it.

That combination is the whole point. Foster’s recommendation works because it comes from someone who knows the difference between disposable noise and deliberate madness. Team America may look like chaotic nonsense on the surface, but it is extremely controlled nonsense. Every puppet stumble, every bombastic song cue, every act of outrageous exaggeration is part of a very specific satirical machine.

What Makes Team America: World Police Such a Wildly Memorable Watch?

Released in 2004, Team America: World Police arrived at a moment when American pop culture was steeped in post-9/11 politics, celebrity activism, global anxiety, and blockbuster patriotism. Trey Parker and Matt Stone responded not with subtle commentary, but with a flamethrower disguised as a marionette show.

The premise is already ridiculous enough to deserve framing. A global paramilitary force made entirely of puppets attempts to save the world from terrorism and weapons of mass destruction while causing nearly as much destruction as the villains. Add in Broadway theatrics, celebrity parodies, action-movie clichés, and gleefully crude songs, and the movie becomes a sort of anti-prestige prestige object: too smart to dismiss, too silly to behave.

It commits to the bit harder than almost any comedy

One reason the film lasts in public memory is sheer commitment. Plenty of comedies have funny ideas. Far fewer push those ideas to the point of obsession. Team America does. It uses marionettes not as a cute gimmick, but as the engine of the entire joke. The stiff movement, the strings, the toy-like facial expressions, and the contrast between childish visuals and aggressively adult material all become part of the satire.

That level of commitment gives the film its strange authority. It is not lazy parody. It is highly engineered lunacy. The craftsmanship is part of the punchline, which is why critics who did not always love its worldview still often acknowledged its technical ambition and fearless execution.

It satirizes more than one target

Another reason Foster’s recommendation lands is that the movie is not simply punching in one political direction. It goes after interventionist bravado, celebrity activism, action-film heroics, media narratives, macho nationalism, and the American instinct to treat world politics like a special-effects demo reel. It is rude to almost everyone in sight.

That does not mean every joke has aged gracefully. Some absolutely have not. But the film’s shotgun-blast satire is part of why it still sparks discussion. It is not interested in being tidy or universally agreeable. It wants to provoke laughter, discomfort, eye-rolling, and debate, often within the same scene.

It understands that politics and performance are often tangled together

One of the film’s sharpest ideas is that public life is often theatrical. Governments perform strength. Celebrities perform moral seriousness. Action heroes perform bravery. News media perform urgency. Team America turns all of that into literal puppetry, which is both juvenile and weirdly incisive.

That is likely part of what appeals to Foster. As an actor and director, she understands performance from the inside. She knows how people present versions of themselves. A movie that turns global politics and Hollywood vanity into a stage full of strings and smoke is not just stupid-funny. It is also making a point about spectacle itself.

Why Jodie Foster’s Pick Actually Makes Her Seem Even Cooler

Celebrity recommendations are often predictable. They can feel like branding exercises in cashmere. Foster’s does not. It feels human. It suggests she values surprise, irreverence, and humor that is willing to get messy. In other words, she is not trying to impress the room. She is telling the truth about what delights her.

There is something refreshing about that, especially now. Modern film conversation can get strangely anxious, as if every favorite movie must double as a moral position paper. Foster’s answer pushes back on that. It says that sometimes a movie matters because it is daring, hilarious, inventive, and impossible to forget. That is not a lesser form of cultural value. It is cultural value.

Her recommendation also reminds audiences that serious artists often need comic release. People who work with heavy material do not necessarily go home craving more heaviness. They may want the opposite: something anarchic, profane, and gloriously unserious. The brain needs vegetables, yes, but it also occasionally wants deep-fried chaos.

A high-low taste profile is often the most interesting one

Foster’s answer is a great example of high-low taste done right. She can champion a multiverse Oscar winner and a vulgar puppet satire in the same breath. That range feels honest. Real movie love is messy. It includes masterpieces, crowd-pleasers, comfort watches, strange obsessions, and titles that make your film-school friend clutch their scarf in alarm.

And frankly, that is healthier than pretending every meaningful movie experience must arrive wearing a tuxedo. Sometimes cinema works because it is beautiful. Sometimes because it is devastating. Sometimes because it is so shamelessly ridiculous that you cannot believe it exists.

Is Team America Still Worth Watching Today?

In one word: yes. In several more words: yes, but know what you are walking into.

This is not a gentle recommendation for every mood or every audience. The movie is aggressively crude, intentionally offensive, and designed to test your tolerance for bad taste used as an artistic weapon. If you hate provocation on principle, it may be a long 98 minutes. If you are allergic to satire that swings in multiple directions, even longer.

But if you can appreciate comedy that pushes form, tone, and nerve to cartoon extremes, the film still has real bite. It remains a fascinating artifact of early-2000s American culture and a case study in how parody can be both juvenile and intelligent at the same time. The jokes do not all age evenly, but the movie’s nerve, precision, and sheer commitment still stand out.

What first-time viewers should pay attention to

Do not just watch the jokes. Watch the construction. Notice how the puppet format changes the rhythm of action scenes. Notice how the film mimics blockbuster seriousness while constantly sabotaging it. Notice how songs, staging, and visual absurdity do as much satirical work as dialogue. And notice how the movie keeps returning to the idea that power, righteousness, and performance are often hilariously entangled.

Also, be prepared to laugh at moments you did not expect to laugh. The film has that kind of unpredictable comic wiring. It can go from grand geopolitical spoof to weirdly tiny physical joke in seconds, then pivot again into musical parody with the confidence of a movie that knows subtlety left the building ages ago.

The Experience of Watching Team America Today

Watching Team America: World Police today is a strange and revealing experience, especially if you come to it because Jodie Foster told you that you should. The recommendation changes the temperature in the room before the movie even begins. You are not just pressing play on an infamous satire. You are testing your own expectations about taste, humor, and what a “must-watch” film can be.

For many viewers, the first few minutes are mostly disbelief. The puppets look intentionally awkward. The action is overblown. The patriotism is dialed past eleven and into self-detonation. It feels like someone fed an action blockbuster, a political rant, a Broadway finale, and a toy store into the same machine and then refused to stop the conveyor belt. That initial shock is part of the fun. The movie does not ease you into its world. It kicks down the door wearing a tiny puppet suit and a huge grin.

Then comes the second stage of the viewing experience: recognition. Beneath the absurdity, you begin to see how carefully the film is built. The marionette strings become part of the joke, but also part of the commentary. The stiffness of the characters mirrors the stiffness of political posturing. The giant speeches parody the way action films pretend violence can solve philosophy. The celebrity jokes land not just because they are mean, but because they expose how public sincerity can easily become public performance.

There is also a uniquely communal quality to watching this movie. It is the kind of film that makes groups react in layers. One person laughs immediately. Another gasps. Someone else mutters, “I cannot believe they did that,” which is often followed by another laugh because yes, they absolutely did. It is a movie that thrives on audience response. Even silence becomes part of the event, because silence usually means the room is trying to process the latest joke-shaped meteor strike.

For older viewers, the experience can be nostalgic in an oddly specific way. It recalls a period when mainstream studio comedies took bigger tonal risks and when satire in theaters felt more combustible. For younger viewers, it can feel almost alien: a movie this expensive, this rude, and this unconcerned with universal approval seems almost impossible by contemporary standards. That alone makes it interesting.

What lingers after the credits is not just the shock value. It is the memory of a film so fully committed to its own deranged vision that it becomes oddly admirable. You may not love every joke. You may wince at some of the broadness. You may even spend part of the runtime wondering how this got greenlit by actual adults with budgets. But you are very unlikely to forget it.

And that, perhaps, is the heart of Foster’s recommendation. Not every movie everyone should see has to be noble, comforting, or impeccably mannered. Some are worth seeing because they are singular. Because they show what comedy can do when it refuses to behave. Because they reveal that cinema history is not built only by refined masterpieces, but also by bizarre little monsters that somehow become landmarks.

In that sense, watching Team America today can feel like a reminder that art does not have to be polite to be meaningful. Sometimes it just has to be bold, committed, and weird enough to survive its own audacity. Foster, with one inspired recommendation, nudged people toward that truth.

Final Thoughts

Jodie Foster’s endorsement of Team America: World Police works because it is funny, surprising, and oddly wise. It tells us something about the film, but it also tells us something about Foster herself. She is serious about craft, not about pretense. She knows that the movies worth seeing are not always the ones that look respectable on paper. Sometimes the unforgettable ones are loud, unruly, technically inventive, and just a little unhinged.

Team America is not a universal comfort watch. It is not neat, tasteful, or eager to please. But it is memorable. It is culturally revealing. It is formally daring in its own chaotic way. And if an artist of Jodie Foster’s caliber says it belongs on the once-in-your-life watch list, that is a strong hint that the movie offers more than surface-level shock.

At the very least, it offers the pleasure of being unable to say, “Well, that was ordinary.” And in a crowded entertainment landscape full of forgettable content, that may be one of the best recommendations a movie can get.