WORDS Paul Cashell
Film’s ability to show you the world through another’s eyes is a wonderful thing. A lot of films can help you understand love, loss and being an astronaut, but for my money, a film that can show you something truly mind altering is a treasure. Filth, the new adaptation of Scottish author Irvine Welsh’s book of the same title, starring James McAvoy as the Machiavellian tragic hero Detective Bruce Robertson as directed by Jon S. Baird, is one of those treasures.
The temptation to wax lyrical about films can be overwhelming, but let me just clarify – I enjoyed the hell out of Filth. Not only does it deliver on the title – a total sprint of sexual frustration and perversion, alcoholism, drug abuse and manipulation of one’s fellow man, Filth is also a fascinating insight into a mind unlike any other. McAvoy’s performance should be the main force drawing you to the theatre this Friday. Detective Robertson, when we first meet him is the archetypical ‘bad lad’ cop, great at what he does, and willing to do anything to get what he wants – namely the newly opened promotion he hopes will strengthen his family unit. For the first twenty minutes or so one would be forgiven for thinking that’s as far as the film would go, and it would have done it well; all snappy dialogue and hard man antics. As the story goes on however, and we delve deeper into Robertson’s cracked psyche, it becomes clear that plot specifics don’t really matter- this is a film about a man collapsing under his own psychological baggage, the baggage of his lifestyle choices and the weight of the image he had created for himself to protect him from all the above.
This is Jon S. Baird’s first film, and a clear and unique style shines through. For a first time director this is a fantastic achievement, and it’ll be interesting to see how his style progresses.
However the touches of flair can often come off as somewhat jarring at times, not fitting with the general aesthetic of the film (although granted this could all serve to further disjoint us from reality along with Robertson as the film progresses). Also, credit where credit is due, Filth, for its extensive use of somewhat bizarre literary tools, is often portrayed as one of these ‘impossible to film books’ but the film does not feel lacking, or feels to be missing key points or aspects. For a film so hedonistic and frantic, the actual story telling at play here is masterfully subtle.
The supporting cast is due as much credit as McAvoy. Eddie Marsan brings his fearsome demeanour to bear as the pathetic Clifford Blades – an accountant Robertson seeks to take advantage of for his own gain. Marsan’s bumbling, trusting eager to please beta-male is a worn out character trope, but is used to utmost effectiveness here, highlighting the eventual destruction of Robertson’s self image. Even if the details don’t entice your interest, I can only state again, this film is fun, while never letting you ignore the darkness of the character’s lives. Highly recommended.
