Swedish filmmaker Ruben Östlund, writer and director of “Force Majeure” and “The Square,” is not often recognized as a humanist artist, yet his movies contain moments of subtle sensitivity and feeling, even as they transpire in a world suffused with bleak pessimism and arms-folded-tight remove. 

“Triangle of Sadness,” Mr. Östlund’s new movie, for which he won his second Palme d’Or at Cannes this year, features moments of tenderness but remains very much committed to his native tongue of cynicism. 

The movie begins with a jaundiced glance at the modeling industry then sets its sights on a luxury cruise somewhere in the Mediterranean. Aboard the superyacht are two models, invited because they’re both beautiful and social media influencers, and a rich Russian businessman, amongst others. It’s not too long before a shocking event disrupts the sunbathing and desultory conversation.

In a maneuver redolent of the writer Ian McEwan, Mr. Östlund deploys a major, disturbing incident that reverberates across the rest of the movie. Usually these occur early in his movies, such as the almost-avalanche in “Force Majeure” or the pseudo-assault in “The Square.” 

In this movie, however, the big storm and the events that ensue do not appear until about the one-hour mark, meaning viewers have to sit through middling irony before something of import happens.  

That’s not to say there aren’t delights — frequently absurd —  in the first hour. One of note is when a helicopter drops off a jar of Nutella so that the yacht’s crew can have it on-hand for a demanding guest. Still, one wishes the director had run a tighter ship, especially since the movie is two and a half-hours long. 

Once the storm clouds gather, the boat and its passengers are literally and figuratively rocked, with both bodies and ideologies tossed about. The ship’s captain, played by Woody Harrelson, and the Russian businessman (Zlatko Burić) trade jokes and well-worn bon mots regarding socialism and capitalism as other passengers hurl and tumble. 

It’s an amusing set piece for a few minutes but it grows repetitive, and the messaging muddled. What exactly is Mr. Östlund saying here? One minute he seems to want us to empathize with the tottering passengers and the next he’s blasting a punk song on the soundtrack to emphasize his anarchist bona fides. 

The movie’s third act takes place on a desolate island. The surviving passengers and crew (the yacht sank) include the two models, the Russian businessman, one of the ship’s cleaning women, and sundry others. Together, they learn to survive while awaiting rescue. The viewer is likely to view that prospect with ambivalence after witnessing the film’s earlier cruelty. 

I must confess that I am still not sure what Mr. Östlund intended with this satirical account of a privileged band made to confront bare and unaccommodated existence. His filmmaking technique further confounds, with nary an effort to ground the viewer at the different settings with an establishing shot. Additionally, sometimes, crucial conversations can be heard but the speakers are not seen. 

Mr. Östlund’s ability to skewer elite civilized society has garnered praise throughout his career, but with “Triangle of Sadness” he has sailed into choppy thematic waters. One hopes that with his next movie he clears the decks of too many ideological rantings, tempers his takedowns, and fills his sails with more empathy. Full steam ahead.