Sometimes, a movie’s title can tell you everything you need to know and then some. Psycho Therapy: The Shallow Tale of a Writer Who Decided to Write About a Serial Killer is as unhinged—and surprisingly touching—as that mouthful implies. An indie noir alive with color and beautiful production values, think of it as The Ref meets Hitchcock, with the visual quirks of Wes Anderson and just enough blood to stain the furniture. Turkish director Tolga Karaçelik makes a thrillingly confident English-language debut, spinning evolving absurdity into entertaining insight with a killer’s precision for a twisted little gem of a film.

Keane (John Magaro, September 5), a struggling writer coasting on past success that’s neck-deep in a messy divorce, meets Kollmick (Steve Buscemi, Transformers One), a self-described “retired” serial killer. Kollmick has been following Keane and wants him to write his biography, sordid details of his gory past. Through the kind of twisty logic only a black comedy allows, Kollmick poses as Keane’s marriage counselor, dispensing relationship advice by day and murder insight by night.

Naturally, this doesn’t go unnoticed by Keane’s soon-to-be ex-wife Suzie (Britt Lower, Sisters), who suspects her husband’s new backbone may come with an accomplice. She’s not wrong. Alarmed by Keane’s sudden confidence and creepy new friend, she eventually comes to believe she’s the target of something deadlier than a drawn-out divorce in NYC. She doesn’t count on how this uninvited impostor upends their power dynamic (until he met Kollmick, Keane was a professional doormat for Suzie) in all the wrong—but strangely right—ways.

This film could have easily taken the first train to Disaster Ville but Karaçelik’s steady direction is confident and weirdly cozy, surrounding his actors with sets and locations that make it easy to get (and stay) in character. From the first minute, it’s evident that this is a filmmaker with a clear point of view who brings a strong visual sense that doesn’t aim to overwhelm. The world Karaçelik is building feels specific and off-kilter, perfectly neo-noir but with colorful flourishes that make the images jump out at you.

Magaro has a lot of fun with his passive-aggressive protagonist, whose emotional constipation becomes both a punchline and a plot point. He can be frustrating and pathetic at various moments but always oddly compelling. His years in the business allow Buscemi to understand how to slyly steal every scene he’s in, giving what could be a cartoon role an unsettling texture while leaving room for a sincere side. It’s almost sweet how seriously he hands out relationship advice to the couple.

However, it’s Lower who’s the secret weapon of the film. Suzie could’ve been reduced to the exhaustive nagging wife trope, but instead, she becomes the story’s sharpest and most unpredictable presence. Her suspicion of her husband and marriage counselor grows into a kind of flirtation with danger the deeper she digs—after all, if Keane might be trying to kill her, doesn’t that at least make him interesting again? Her arc is the most satisfying of all, a slow realization that the only thing more terrifying than a marriage on the skids is one that starts to feel alive again.

Two supporting roles are too good not to mention. As Keane’s ruthless agent, Ward Horton (Annabelle) has several nice scenes spread across the film that allow him to give a range of humorous exchanges with Magaro. Then there’s Jacob Ming-Trent, bringing unexpected warmth and well-timed comic relief as a cab driver caught in the marital crossfire. Ming-Trent may have few lines, but he makes each one count. It’s the kind of performance you think about days later, wondering what comes next for that character.

If the film owes a lot to noir (we’ll call it noir-lite to be safe), it’s because Natalie Kingston’s cinematography turns New York City into a haunted playground—moody but never gloomy. Stacy Jansen’s costumes tell their own story for each character and give them further definition, from Magaro’s schlubby layers of cardigans to Lower’s sleek, almost armor-like boss b***h wardrobe and Kollmick’s disconcertingly normal attire. Nathan Klein’s score shifts from quirky to eerie without ever feeling jarring, and Lance Mitchell and Abigail Rieger’s production design makes every space we find ourselves in feel carefully curated, but lived-in. Dangerous, but oddly inviting.

Under all the cleverness and chaos, Psycho Therapy: The Shallow Tale of a Writer Who Decided to Write About a Serial Killer has honest points to make about marriage and creativity, and the toxic sludge that can form when the two stop nourishing each other. It won’t be everyone’s thing. The tone can be slippery, the comedy dry enough to crack over your knee, and the premise is arguably more brilliantly realized on paper than in full execution. Even so, the ace performances and innovative stylistic flourishes carry it across the finish line. Fans of stylish neo-noirs and oddly endearing Buscemi performances will want to seek this out immediately.