The Exterminating Angel

Guests are trapped at a fancy dinner party in this surrealist film. For some mysterious reason the servants suddenly leave, and that's when the real horror begins. I couldn't imagine anything more terrifying. First of all, having a fancy dinner party would be just awful. While I have unlimited resources, I don't particularly like sharing it with anyone. I don't want a bunch of freeloaders chilling in my penthouse eating up all my fancy foods. Second of all, I'll be darned if all my minions, I mean, domestic help, are just going to walk off the jobs in a huff. We will follow proper human resource protocol and all the forms of voluntary employee separation will be filled out, and by 'filled out' I mean everyone is getting shoved down the elevator shaft. Second of all, I don't like fancy food. I'm certain that if I served what I usually eat to all my freeloading fancy guests, they would be appalled by the tater tots and the Party Size Stouffer's Macaroni And Cheese. And finally, I don't like guests, fancy or not. I really can't stand having a whole bunch of nosy busy-bodies rifling through my items. There's nothing worse than a penthouse full of curious party guests getting their greasy tater tot covered fingerprints all over my assets and asking a bunch of questions. 'Ooh, what's this secret passageway? Ooh, what's this huge vault? Wait a minute, is this painting Vermeer's 'The Concert'? Hey, where does this open elevator shaft go?'. I don't need that kind of aggravation, interference, or investigation by certain government agencies. And don't get me started on the fact that the party-goers in The Exterminating Angel are unable to leave. If ever in the extremely unlikely event that I'm going to throw a fancy dinner party where everyone suddenly becomes trapped through some mysterious psychological force, it wouldn't take a month before all sorts of surreal events start happening like sheep wandering through the penthouse or people sawing on cellos or disembodied hands scooting menacingly across the floor. It would take about 15 minutes for the clocks to start melting and all societal niceties to completely break down, because that's about how long my patience for fancy dinner parties would last. Everyone is going to have to grab all their mink coats and top hats and diamond tiaras and get lost. There is no way I would ever tolerate a bunch of stuffy high society begowned and tuxedoed fannies sitting around my penthouse planted in my antique Stickley Morris chairs breathing up my air and asking possibly incriminating questions about my art collection and eating all my fancy tater tot canapes and expecting me to entertain them somehow and blinking at me. It's just not going to happen.