12/29/14: Love Hurts

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abortion, Antichrist, attempted rape, auteur theory, BDSM, Best of 2014, Breaking the Waves, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Christian Slater, cinema, coming of age, favorite films, female sexuality, feminism, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, foreign films, graphic films, Jamie Bell, Lars von Trier, Manuel Alberto Claro, Melancholia, Mia Goth, Movies, Nymphomaniac, Rammstein, real sex, sexuality, Shia LeBeouf, Stacy Martin, Stellan Skarsgard, stylish films, Udo Kier, Willem Dafoe, writer-director

Love him or hate him, there’s absolutely no denying what a massively talented filmmaker Danish provocateur Lars Von Trier is: the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Despite his propensity for incendiary soundbites while on press junkets, Von Trier has been an uncompromising force in the world of film since bursting into the public eye with Breaking the Waves (1996): since that time, Von Trier has given us some of the most unforgettable, amazing art films in the history of the medium – Dancer in the Dark (2000), Dogville (2003), Manderlay (2005), Antichrist (2009) and Melancholia (2011) are all deeply individualistic, exquisitely crafted and endlessly inventive works of art that don’t shy away from big or unpleasant questions while never losing sight of the impish, dark sense of humor that’s characterized all of Von Trier’s productions.

Quite simply, people expect Von Trier to be a shit disturber and the description for his latest venture produced the required amount of consternation: in his daffiest pronouncement yet, Von Trier promised to do no less than completely explore female sexuality, from a female perspective, none the less. The very notion of any male proclaiming to “understand” female sexuality is both ridiculous and more than a little offensive: there’s much more than notions of textbook biology that factor into this, since psychological, societal and familial issues all factor into any understanding of what constitutes female sexuality. There’s also the fact that…well…you know…Lars Von Trier is a guy: what, exactly, makes him any kind of an expert on the female body?

Here’s the thing, though: it’s easy to get riled at Von Trier’s hubris, to scoff at the very notion that any man could purport to craft the end-all-be-all of female sexuality. After all, this is the same guy who gave us the unrelentingly misogynistic Dogville and the gynocidal-themed Antichrist: can we really trust someone like Von Trier to give anything approaching a balanced representation of female sexuality? It’s remarkably easy to talk shit about the whole enterprise until you’re actually face-to-face with the finished product. Is Von Trier’s Nymphomaniac (2014) the “ultimate” representation of female sexuality on the big screen? Probably not. Is it one of the most fascinating, inflammatory and must-see films of the year? Absolutely.

Divided across two halves, eight chapters and roughly 5.5 hours (this review refers to the “uncut director’s edition”), Nymphomaniac is the furthest thing from “rainy day” viewing. This is a film that demands (and rewards) close attention: interested parties are advised to just swallow the pill, devote a day to the proceedings and just let Von Trier take the reins. I’ve never been the biggest fan of binge-watching “large” films, in general, but take my advise: you’ll want to absorb Nymphomaniac in one go, similar to ripping a band-aid off in one pull.

We begin with Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard) finding Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) beaten nearly to death in an alley. He spirits her home, sees to her wounds and asks her about the circumstances that led to her dire condition. This, of course, is all a ploy to get us to the main event: the complete life history of our protagonist, Joe. From this point on, Joe relates her life story to the kindly, doting Seligman, a story which focuses predominantly on her sexual awakening and exploits. Although we’ll view it all in seemingly arbitrary order, we’ll follow Joe from her first orgasm, at age 12, all the way to the events that led to her current state. Along the way, we’ll learn about her life-long love-affair with Jerome (Shia Lebouf), her relationship with her scientist father (Christian Slater),  her introduction to BDSM at the hands of the mysterious K (Jamie Bell), her self-administered abortion and eventual mastery of her own libido, after the failure of the various men in her life.

It’s a painful journey, as we’ll see, a journey that involves the loss of Joe’s son, the loss of her beloved father, the loss of control over her own body, the loss of her “true love” and her eventual loss of self. It’s also an enlightening journey, however, as Joe learns to control her own sexuality and understand her body in ways that she never could before. Joe is anything but a victim: for the majority of the film’s runtime, Joe is in complete control of her sexuality and body: even when she doesn’t fully understand the ramifications, Joe is always the one who calls the shots. At the end of the day, can there really be a more progressive, forward-thinking POV than that?

Here’s the thing: as with anything else by Von Trier, love it or hate it, there’s absolutely no denying how amazing Nymphomaniac is…from a sheer filmmaking perspective, the film is an absolute marvel. Stuffed to bursting with gorgeous cinematography, ingenious editing, and some truly marvelous performances, Nymphomaniac is utterly captivating, from beginning to end. I simply cannot stress enough how impressive this is in a film that stretches nearly to the six-hour mark: this seems to fly by in record time.

I would be remiss if I didn’t spend at least a moment or two discussing the film’s sexual content. Ready? Here it goes: you will see lots and lots of penises, vaginas, graphic penetration, fellatio and cunnilingus…if any of this bothers you, this is, without a doubt, not the film for you. I will make the point, however, that the sexuality in Nymphomaniac always comes across as graphic, rather than gratuitous: there’s an important distinction and I feel that Von Trier manages to keep everything on the “proper” side throughout the film’s runtime.

One aspect of the film that adds, immeasurably, to the overall feel is the underlying sense of humor. While very little about Nymphomaniac is explicitly funny, per se, the film is chock-a-block with Von Trier’s patented sense of dark, ironic humor. While much of the humor comes from Seligman’s often inappropriate digressions and asides, one of the film’s purely “funniest” scenes has to be the setpiece where Joe attempts to instigate a threesome with two African men, without speaking their language. The scene acts as a microcosm of the entire film, in a way, expertly blending the slapstick and the obscene, the erotic and the ridiculous, to dizzying effect.

The core of the film, performance-wise, is definitely the combined tour-de-force of Gainsbourg and Skarsgard. While Skarsgard is reliably solid as the inquisitive, kindly scientist, Gainsbourg absolutely owns the film as Joe. There’s a nuance and sense of unpredictability to her performance that is an absolute joy to watch and I’ll be honest: the fact that Gainsbourg wasn’t nominated for any acting awards has more to do with the fact that Von Trier is too much of a hot potato than with real issues…her performance is magnificent and certainly deserved to be celebrated.

Most importantly, Nymphomaniac is an incredibly complex film: from the constant digressions (ala House of Leaves) to the time-line jumping to the theoretical discussions and the ever-prevalent symbolism, there’s an awful lot going on here at any given time. Von Trier manages to imbue everything with its own distinct feel, as befits the various themes: the hospice section has a stark, black-and-white feel that recalls Von Trier’s earliest, most experimental works, while various other portions recall the stunning visuals that characterize latter-day works like Antichrist and Melancholia.

My main issue going into this, to be honest, was the underlying notion that Von Trier really has no business telling this particular story: a film like this needs to come from a female perspective, no two ways about it. Ultimately, however, I find myself torn: Von Trier tells this tale with so much nuance and subtlety that it seems completely reductive to cut him out of the discussion. Von Trier, the man, might not have anything inherent to add to this particular gender discussion but Von Trier, the filmmaker, has plenty to say and it would seem a little remiss not to at least listen.

Ultimately, there’s a lot going on here, more than can, reasonably, be discussed in this kind of a format. While there will always be the question of whether Von Trier has any dog in this race, so to speak, the end-results speak for themselves. At the end of the day, all that we can do is look at the finished product and examine the facts, such as they are. Here are the facts: an uncompromising filmmaker has crafted an uncompromising film and the results demand to be seen and discussed. Is this the final word on gender discussions? Absolutely not…but I don’t think it pretends to be, either. Rather, I think that Von Trier has created a film which frames the discussion of female sexuality in a way that explicitly references not only modern notions of “entertainment” but classical “acceptance” of gender roles and norms.

More than anything, Nymphomaniac asks us to take all of the proffered information and frame it in a distinctly genderless manner: if we wouldn’t bat an eye at a guy doing any of this, why would we look so askance at a woman doing the same thing? In the end, this is Nymphomaniac (and Von Trier’s) greatest victory: we know that it’s “accepted,” but is it right? Nymphomaniac doesn’t think it is and, to be honest, neither should you.

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11/30/14: The Last Train Out of Town

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12 Monkeys, action films, Alison Pill, auteur theory, betrayal, Blade Runner, Bong Joon-Ho, Chris Evans, cinema, class systems, class warfare, climate change, dystopian future, Ed Harris, end of the world, English-language debut, Ewen Bremner, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Hunger Games, Jamie Bell, John Hurt, Ko Ah-sung, Luke Pasqualino, Movies, near future, Octavia Spencer, rich vs poor, sci-fi, Snowpiercer, Song Kang-ho, Steve Park, The Host, Tilda Swinton, trains

Nowadays, with the space between the haves and have-nots not so much a gap as a massive, bottomless chasm filled with baying hellhounds, the notion of class warfare has never been more prescient. Increasingly, it seems that the world can be neatly divided into two groups: those who can afford the basic necessities of life (food, clean water, housing, security, justice) and those who must struggle to divide up whatever dregs remain. We can argue notions of economics, supply-and-demand, consumerism, et al until the cows come home but it does nothing to change the basic facts: as it stands, our modern world is but several very slippery steps away from the feudal system that proved so “effective” during the Middle Ages. While issues of race, gender, religion and nationality will always plague humanity, anyone who doesn’t see the underlying class issues behind them is either willfully ignorant…or a part of the problem.

For his English-language debut, Snowpiercer (2014) Korean auteur Bong Joon-ho takes a good, long look at this underlying class warfare, wrapping it tight within the guise of an environmental message film before bundling everything up within a stream-lined sci-fi/action outer-shell: if you will, Joon-ho’s film is the turducken of big-budget multiplex fare, a multi-layered feast that reveals new flavors and wrinkles with each turn of the script. If the ultimate result ends up feeling somehow less revelatory than expected, it does nothing to detract from the overall quality of the film: anyone worried that making the transition to English-language films would blunt Joon-ho’s edge should check their fears at the door, since Snowpiercer is nothing if not a highly accomplished spectacle, relentlessly paced and endlessly thrilling.

From the outset, we learn that efforts to reverse global warming, involving a material known as “CW-7” have proven a little too successful: the Earth has now frozen and the vast majority of life has been wiped out. The only survivors now live on a massive “super-train” that zooms in a perpetual, never-ending loop around the frozen desolation, unable to ever step foot outside lest they instantly freeze. Aboard the train, similar to the breakdown on the Titanic, the survivors have been separated into two groups: the wealthy, powerful members of society get the front of the train and all of the perks (real food, drink, tanning beds, raves, shopping, sushi), while the poor, downtrodden masses get the tail section and live in complete squalor, subsisting on some sort of strange, black “food” substance and whatever scraps the upper berths don’t want. To make matters worse, the poor are constantly beaten and abused by the thuggish security detail and have their children constantly taken from them, spirited away to the front of the train, never to be seen again. The system is stretched to breaking and something must change…and change, it does.

Revolution enters the picture in the form of Curtis (Chris Evans), the charismatic “folk leader” of the lower classes who, along with their de facto leader, Gilliam (John Hurt), has devised a plan to wrest control of the train from the haves and return it to the have-nots. Quite simply, “whoever controls the engine, controls the world,” and Curtis knows that their only hope for change is to fight their way all the way to the front of the train. At first, the task seems all but impossible: the security detail is huge, well-armed and cold-blooded; the ruling regime, represented by the bizarrely presentational Mason (Tilda Swinton), don’t see the lower classes as anything other than fodder and free labor, so have absolutely no problem with dispatching as many of them as necessary to make their point. During the moment of truth, however, as Curtis’ rebels square off against the security team, something miraculous happens: the guards are revealed to be out of ammo, after all. Fortune, it appears, has just smiled on the brave.

Seizing the moment, Curtis and his fighters gain the upper-hand and begin their perilous trek to the front of the train, working their way towards a climatic meeting with Wilford (Ed Harris), the mysterious industrialist and engineer who not only foresaw the current environmental crisis but created the Ark as humanity’s last recourse. Along the way, the group picks up Nam (Song Kang-ho) and his daughter, Yona (Ko Ah-sung), a pair of drug addicts who may just know how to get Curtis into the engine room. As the group will find out, however, nothing on the train is quite as it seems and Curtis will soon be neck-deep in betrayal, shocking revelations and life-changing decisions. At stake? Nothing less than the fate of all humanity.

For the most part, Snowpiercer works spectacularly well on several different levels. For one thing, the film is a superb action film, showcasing several impressive set-pieces (the tunnel massacre is pretty unforgettable) and throttling forward at a breakneck pace. We’re jumped into the action from the get-go and the film never really lets up: in some ways, it almost feels as if we’re dumped into Snowpiercer in media res, although the film is streamlined enough that abject flailing about is fairly minimal. Everything is filmed in a highly stylized, kinetic fashion that will be immediately familiar to fans of Joon-ho’s back catalog (especially his iconic monster flick, The Host (2006) and the various fight scenes, full of highly evocative slo-mo and balletic movements, are consistently impressive.

Snowpiercer also succeeds as a dystopic future flick, albeit one that doesn’t add much to the lexicon: even the revelation of the icky looking protein bars (Spoiler: it’s not people) feels like part of a fairly well-established formula. That being said, the film’s look and world-building is fully immersive: this is recognizably our world but it’s tweaked enough to give a proper sense of disorientation. It reminded me of Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys (1995), although Joon-ho’s particular vision isn’t quite as singular or unique. There are moments when the film approaches the iconic city scenes of Blade Runner (1982), especially during our introduction to the tail section of the train and the moment where our heroes first pass into the posh upper class section.

The third area where Snowpiercer excels is as a message film: while the script can, occasionally, be a little too on the nose, there are plenty of layers here and some truly interesting discussions of responsibility, personal sacrifice and the value of the individual against the many. Wilford may be the film’s de facto villain (although Swinton’s ludicrously over-the-top Mason fits that bill in a more classic manner) but his climatic meeting with Curtis raises more questions than it answers: a latter-half revelation puts his actions into a new light, making easy condemnations just a little bit harder. Wilford may be a real son of a bitch but he’s anything but arbitrary: the fact that he, technically, has a point doesn’t absolve him or his peers of responsibility for their terrible actions but it should definitely lead to some interesting post-film conversations/arguments. In many ways, Wilford represents the unwavering, coldly clinical eye of government: decisions and actions that seem unconscionable on the ground sometimes take on a different meaning from the war room.

Despite all of the pluses, however, I must freely admit that I didn’t find Snowpiercer to be the complete revelation that others have: if anything, the film is an exceptionally well-made, tightly plotted action with lots of themes and meaning but, ultimately, not much different from similarly intelligent multiplex fare. Often, I was reminded of the Hunger Games series: while Snowpiercer is a much more mature, artistic film, craft-wise, it’s really not that far removed, thematically. Unlike the uncomfortable class discussions of something like Society (1989), nothing in Snowpiercer really feels “game-changing,” as it were: we’ve seen this particular conflict many, many times over the years and, while it may be timely, it’s certainly not shocking. This is not to knock the film’s themes in any way, however: I would rather see an overly familiar discussion of class and environmentalism on the big screen than no discussion at all, thank you very much. That being said, I frequently found myself wishing that the film took a few more risks: even the double-crosses felt a bit familiar and the ending, while beautifully executed, didn’t seem to pack the punch that it could have.

Ultimately, however, my quibbles about Snowpiercer feel fairly petty: above and beyond all else, this is the kind of intelligent popcorn film that we definitely need more of in this era of the “turn your brain off and react” action film. The acting is excellent, with Captain America’s (2011) Chris Evans almost unrecognizable as the grizzled hero and Song Kang-ho serving as a more than suitable foil. If Hurt and Swinton end up turning in yet more variations on their past work (“gruff mentor” and “quirky oddball” could very well be chiseled on their gravestones, at some point in the far future), it doesn’t take away from the basic pleasure of watching either one work. Ditto for Ed Harris who’s managed to avoid disappointing me for at least a couple decades now: a film could do a lot worse than have him play a megalomanical leader with a God-complex and distinct ideas on the social contract.

Is Snowpiercer one of the best films of the year, however? To be honest, it’s kind of a difficult question to answer. The film is certainly one of the best action films of the last several years, hands down, but I just can’t help shake the feeling that it’s still slightly less than what it could have been. Despite it’s epic scope and feel, Snowpiercer, somehow, feels like a slightly lesser film than The Host. Chalk this up to to the transition from more personalized family struggles in one to more “universal” issues in the other and we begin to see where the issue may lie. While watching Snowpiercer, I kept waiting to feel the intense connection to the characters that I did with the family in The Host but it really only happened with Nam and his daughter: whenever the two of them share the screen, Snowpiercer is able to transcend its sci-fi/action trappings and become something simultaneously more intimate and more far-reaching. In a film that purports to be about the very essence of humanity, it’s only when we spend time with this disenfranchised father and daughter, so wrecked by life yet still so inherently hopeful, that the film truly seems to come alive. I’d like to say it’s enough to melt the most frozen heart but that would be kind of precious, wouldn’t it?

9/14/14: This Little Piggy

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bad cops, bad decisions, Bad Lieutenant, based on a book, black comedies, Brian McCardie, British films, cinema, Clint Mansell, corrupt law enforcement, Eddie Marsan, electronic score, Emun Elliott, film reviews, films, Filth, gallows' humor, Gary Lewis, homophobia, Imogen Poots, infidelity, insanity, Irvine Welsh, James McAvoy, Jamie Bell, Jim Broadbent, John Sessions, Jon S. Baird, Matthew Jensen, mental illness, Movies, pigs, racism, sexism, Shauna Macdonald, Shirley Henderson, Trainspotting, voice-over narration, writer-director

When it comes to filmed adaptations of Scottish scalawag Irvine Welsh’s novels, Danny Boyle’s extraordinary version of Trainspotting (1996) will probably always be the gold standard. In a way, Boyle’s film was a perfect storm and, perhaps, the only one of the adaptations to truly capture Welsh’s unique voice and style. Boyle managed to find the essential humanity at the core of some pretty reprehensible characters and wrapped the proceedings in an alternately candy-colored and bleakly hallucinatory environment: the film was the perfect combination of the romantic and the scatological, the joy and shuddering horror of the trod-upon Scotch lower-class writ large for the whole world to see. In Boyle’s hands, there was equal parts poetry and filth, the proverbial rose pushing up through a mountain of shit. Trainspotting works so well because Boyle walks the tightrope so perfectly: too much glitz and we lose the allure of Welsh’s gutter-punk angels…too much vulgarity and we tune out the misery, if only to avoid staring too deeply into the abyss.

Although it’s not (necessarily) meant as a pejorative, writer/director Jon S. Baird’s adaptation of Welsh’s Filth (2013) is no Trainspotting. In certain ways, the film plays more like an over-the-top (waaaaay over the top) take on Abel Ferrara’s classic of feel-bad-cinema, Bad Lieutenant (1999), just as content to shove our noses in bad behavior as it is to comment on it. Where Ferrara’s film wore its intentions on its sleeve, (any film that centers around a nun forgiving her rapist is obviously interested in more than just a visceral reaction), Filth is a little cagier about its ultimate goal. When Baird’s film works, it’s ferocious, funny, eye-popping and endlessly offensive, featuring a truly great ending and a career-best performance by James McAvoy. When the film doesn’t work, however, it’s actually rather dreadful: pretentious, empty-headed and more stylish than substantial, Filth manages to make all of the mistakes that Trainspotting didn’t. While I (ultimately) ended up liking the film quite a bit (no doubt due, in no small part, to that phenomenal ending), there was plenty that I found to be equally eye-rolling, obnoxious and tedious. Filth may not ascend to the heady heights that Trainspotting did but there’s plenty to enjoy here: fans of Welsh’s purple prose may, indeed, celebrate the fact that Baird has captured the author’s often difficult voice so well.

Our “hero” and guide through this little section of Hell is none other than Bruce Robertson (James McAvoy), a cop so completely and thoroughly corrupt/reprehensible that he makes Harvey Keitel’s titular “bad lieutenant” look like a real sweetheart. Bruce is virulently sexist, racist and homophobic, hoovers up cocaine by the metric ton and eagerly blackmails the underage daughter of a prominent lawyer into performing oral sex on him. He steals money from his “best friend” while anonymously serving as obscene phone-caller to the poor guy’s wife, while also sleeping with the wife of one of his co-workers. Bruce is angling for a department promotion which, in his fetid little world, involves doing everything he can to sabotage his fellow officers’ chances of vaulting over him to the finish line.

We first meet Bruce’s co-workers via a series of fantasy vignettes in which our resident Mr. Wonderful gives his (slanted) take on his peers: Dougie (Brian McCardie) is the “Nazi” who’s being cuckolded by Bruce; Peter (Emun Elliott) is the “metrosexual” and “closeted gay”; Ray (Jamie Bell) is the “coke-head rookie”; Gus (Gary Lewis) is the “old as dirt, single-IQ” department veteran and Amanda (Imogen Poots) is the “token female” who “must be sucking off the whole squad,” at least according to Bruce’s jaundiced worldview.

While Bruce’s work-life appears to be one never-ending scheme after another, his home-life appears to be just as complicated and unpleasant. We meet his lovely blonde wife, Carole (Shauna Macdonald), through a series of largely unsuccessful vignettes/voice-overs and get some hint of a past trauma after Bruce attempts (and fails) to give CPR to someone who has collapsed on the street. The dead man’s widow, Mary (Joanne Froggatt), periodically appears to serve as Bruce’s conscience, in a way, while also giving hints at the kind of love story that belongs in a much nicer film.

To muddy the waters even further, Bruce’s squad is currently embroiled in the controversial case of a Japanese exchange student who has been brutally beat to death by a gang of Scottish punks. As the team investigates the case, the stakes are raised when it’s revealed that closing the case will virtually guarantee one of them a plum new promotion: Bruce wants that promotion and sets out to stop his fellow officers in any way he can. Bruce has such single-minded devotion to his plan, in fact, that the actual murder case fades into the background, even when it appears that Carole may be the only witness to the incident.

As Bruce dives deeper and deeper into the sewage around him, his tenuous grasp on reality begins to flicker in and out: he starts to imagine people (including himself) with animal heads, loses control of his hair-trigger temper at a moment’s notice and descends even further into an unrelenting drug hell. Will Bruce be able to keep it all together long enough to solve the murder or, at the very least, completely wreck his co-workers’ lives? What mysterious incident happened to Bruce that causes him to constantly reminisce about a dead boy? And what, exactly, is going on with Bruce’s absent wife, Carole? The ultimate revelation is quite a surprise and leads to a truly bravura climax that almost (but not quite) rivals the “Choose life” finale from Trainspotting, albeit from a much grimmer angle.

As mentioned above, Filth is a pretty hit-and-miss affair but the hits are heady enough to gloss over the misses. Chief among the “pros” here is McAvoy’s astounding performance as Bruce: as painful as a raw nerve, as dastardly as any villain and just charming enough to prevent you from wanting to squash him like a bug, Bruce is a massively interesting construct and is brought to glorious life by McAvoy. Without a strong center, the film would, literally, collapse into wet newspaper: who the hell wants to get stuck with an unlovable, lecherous sociopath for 90 minutes? To McAvoy’s immense credit, he manages to humanize Bruce just enough (the guy is still an inhuman creep, mind you) to allow the finale to have genuine impact. There’s a truly odd but relentlessly effective scene where Bruce obscene calls his friend’s wife while watching old home movies: as tears stream down his cheeks and his eyes betray pure misery, Bruce mouths some of the most vile “sex talk” in some time and masturbates in almost robotic fashion. The split screen shows us that Bunty (Shirley Henderson) is also furiously pleasuring herself, which makes a ludicrous parallel to Bruce’s miserable actions. It’s a small but effective moment, a bit that fuses the film’s twin obsessions of gutter-trawling and emotional overload into one dynamic whole.

Although McAvoy is, head and shoulders, the focal point of the film, it’s definitely not a one-man show. The ensemble is a particularly strong one, with all of Bruce’s co-workers receiving their own moment in the sun, along with some despicable behaviors of their own. Particularly impressive, however, is veteran British character-actor Eddie Marsan as Bruce’s put-upon “best friend” and Masonic Lodge brother Clifford. With his doughy features and perpetually hang-dog demeanor, Clifford is a fabulous foil for Bruce: the scene where Bruce takes Clifford out for a night on the town flops wildly between a “night out for the lads” and “complete psychological torture.” Clifford is an intriguing character and Marsan goes for the gusto in the role, expanding what could have been a caricature into a fully fleshed, if largely worthless, individual.

From a craft standpoint, Filth looks great, although it’s occasionally a little blown-out for my tastes. The film also has the benefit of a pretty excellent soundtrack courtesy of former Pop Will Eat Itself frontman Clint Mansell: while the score doesn’t rival the iconic soundtrack from Trainspotting, it’s still an effective combination of Mansell’s traditional electro scorework and some pretty apt pop tunes (Mansell’s evocative cover of Radiohead’s Creep scores the final scene and is absolutely perfect for the mood Baird has established.

While the film has plenty to recommend it, however, there’s also plenty that nearly derails it completely. The interludes with Carole never work and always seem ancillary to the main narrative. They’re also quite irritating, to be honest, and tonally out-of-sorts with the rest of the film. Along those lines, several scenes, such as the impromptu musical number, seem out-of-place and manage to fall completely flat, affording nothing more than a shrug. For a film that’s about lurid and anti-social behavior, Filth also has a strange tendency to seem…well, just a little bit tame, if that makes sense. Whereas Ferrara’s Bad Lieutenant was a feral, unhinged fever dream, Filth plays out more as a snide, tongue-in-cheek expose on “bad behavior”: it’s a little like crossing the street to avoid an exceptionally creepy looking stranger only to discover that the stranger is actually Robert Pattinson with drawn-on tattoos. In many ways, I fear that this comes down to the film’s “style over substance” issues: like many other “everything and the kitchen sink films,” Filth throws so much stuff at the audience that, inevitably, fatigue sinks in. Compare this to the groodiest moments in Boyle’s masterpiece and it’s easy to see how less can, indeed, often be more.

Ultimately, I found myself quite taken with Filth, even though it’s several solid steps below Trainspotting. McAvoy is pitch-perfect throughout and is just good enough to warrant watching the film: regardless of your tolerance for the debauchery on display, McAvoy is outstanding and turns in a real “actor’s performance.” If you can forgive the film its excesses and step over the plot holes that begin to spread like wildfire in the second half (my least favorite being the revelation that Bunty doesn’t realize it’s Bruce that’s been prank-calling her: Really? I mean…really?), I think that you’ll find Filth to be a massively entertaining examination of one of the slimiest cinematic slugs to slither its way across the silver screen in some time. You might not be able to stand in Bruce’s corner (I’d be kind of scared if you could) but that shouldn’t stop you from seeing him get his just desserts. Filth might not be Trainspotting but, for patient and tolerant viewers, it just might be the next best thing.