The UK defines itself cinematically by kitchen-sink social realism. By presenting us as a rainy and loveless land, the works of Mike Leigh and Cleo Barnard export well to Europe. And Ken Loach's I, Daniel Blake scored the director his second Palme D'Or, an honour only seven others share. Even our television is aggressively dour. A visiting alien would think the UK contained only police officers, struggling single mothers and bailiffs. A few chefs, too. The whole thing is shot through with social conservativism and ‘poor cow’ commiserations.
Beneath this, however, has bubbled a long-standing tradition of experimentation and Gothic beauty. Britain's most iconic horror film, The Wicker Man, represents these two battling modes quite well. Woodward's Sergeant Howie is a moral absolutist, a terse and joyless Catholic. By contrast, the denizens of Summerisle are self-determined and sexually expressive. Howie's bullheadedness blinds him from the truth: pagan idolatry built the British Isles. His own credo, the institution he represents, are themselves perversions of a much deeper and older system of belief.
Ken Russell and Terry Gilliam are legendary figures in British film. But discussion around them is so often bashful, self-deprecating and tinged with shame. We have a national inability to face our own blood-drenched past.
In recent years, and especially with the foundation of Ben Wheatley's Rook Films, experimentation in narrative British cinema has been reinvigorated. Focus has returned from the tree to its gnarled roots. Sensuality and silliness has found its space again. A beleaguered public is rediscovering the escapism of film.
The latest from Rook, Peter Strickland's In Fabric, is set in Thames Valley. Anyone who lives there will attest to it being grey, corporate and consumerist. The entire region is, put simply, the admin department of the City of London. Not an obvious playground for Strickland's seductive, magical, and somewhat arch style.
But In Fabric rifles to the back of the wardrobe. It finds and lays bare the absurdity of shopping centres, dating, washing machine repair — you name it. The mundanities of life are cast into sharp relief, reframed, and given colour. Rather than bemoan our lot, In Fabric chuckles dryly to itself. The emotional intensity of Strickland's craft is still here. But it takes a backseat to what can only be described as 'John Waters does giallo'.
In an impressive balancing act, the film never descends into farce. Even a final-act setpiece involving a blasting siren is oddly mournful and horrific. Great performances across the board carry the film's more outrageous twists through. And a wonderful score by Cavern of Anti-Matter climaxes with such power and gusto you'll cover your ears and strain to listen at the same time.
By the way, it's about a dress that murders people.
In Fabric is available to rent and buy now.
Words by Andrew O’Keefe