In Swiss Army Man, a Sundance debut from first time feature directors Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert, Paul Dano’s Hank, trapped on a deserted island and ready to do himself in, spots a corpse (Daniel Radcliffe) rolling in the surf and figures the young man with decaying blue skin probably felt the same way.



First he yanks Radcliffe’s belt (better for strangling himself) but he notices the body is explosive with intestinal gas. Like the monkeys with the bone in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Dano rides Radcliffe like a jet ski, his fricative flatulence propelling him to civilisation. Believe it or not, the movie’s only about to get weirder.

Finding themselves lost in a wooded area, Radcliffe is squeezed for the fresh water his open jaw collected in the rain. Is any of this actually possible? Before you can think on this too much, Radcliffe is soon revived (a revenant!) and, while no less helpful, also something of an inquisitive boy.

Between a rock and a hard place … Dano and Radcliffe in Swiss Army Man

Calling himself Manny, the stonefaced Radcliffe learns about life, love and Netflix from the world-weary Hank, but when it comes time to learn about sex, Manny’s phallic responses are more than just a gag: his tumescence proves to be the directional radar the pair need to find their way home.



Manny sees the photos on Hank’s phone and is drawn to them. Is this a woman Hank deserted? An ex-girlfriend for whom he still pines? In time we’ll discover Hank is actually another of cinema’s lonely boys that border on creepy, powered by their urgent, unrequited affection.

Along the way, though, the directors (credited at the start of the film as Daniels) keep things creative with a sort of Michel Gondry-like spirit, shattering reality with crafty set-pieces drawn from the characters’ imagination. Soon the pair are drinking and dancing, “going to the movies” and maybe falling in love?

I could never prep you enough for the degree to which farting plays a pivotal role in Swiss Army Man. In addition to its plot contrivance (it’s the gas that keeps these lost men on their voyage) the taboo of passing wind (as well as masturbation) becomes the central metaphor for the need to be true to oneself. It’s coarse and it’s stupid, but it is, thanks mostly the two good performances and some stylish use of music and editing, a little bit moving. Profound gas, indeed.

