The dismal, disorientating horrors of TV series The Terror have been an antidote to the rolling-on of Spring. This ten-part series is based on a true story, and draws from the Dan Simmons novel of the same title. Set in the Northwest Passage during an abortive mission to find a new shipping passage through the frozen North, two ships – HMS Terror and HMS Erebus – get frozen in sea ice, stranding them for years out of contact with the rest of humanity, with a tainted supply of stored food and dwindling chances of achieving their mission. Their crisis deepens when a polar bear discovers the men and begins to – seemingly methodically – pick them off, but as the men’s paranoia grows, it appears that there is more to this creature than first appears…
A masterclass in slowly-creeping horror, The Terror has a superb cast – Ciaran Hinds, Jared Harris, Tobias Menzies – and is executive-produced by Ridley Scott. You could be forgiven for thinking that Scott has a directorial hand in the series, as some of its most ominous scenes are to the sea and ice what Alien was to space. As it runs across ten episodes, it has the space and time to be a steadily-building drama, slowly developing its characters as well as its plot and moving towards its astounding conclusion.
Want to own a copy? For the chance to win a DVD box set of this series, courtesy of Acorn Media International, all you have to do is email keri[at]warped-perspective.com titling your email THE TERROR and providing your name and address (UK only, sorry folks). The competition will close at midnight GMT on Monday, 19th April and the winner will be drawn at random from the entrants (all personal data is stored securely until the competition’s close and will be deleted once a winner is selected).
Please note: this article discusses key plot points from The Terror and as such contains spoilers. Please don’t read this unless you have already seen the series.
It’s been noted elsewhere that we seem to have developed a taste for isolation horror over the past year or so. Sure, it’s always been a key factor in a lot of horrifying TV and cinema, but you can’t help but notice the sheer relish with which we’ve taken to it since we began dealing with the fallout of the Covid-19 virus, and maybe trying out a little isolation of our own – possibly for the first time. This may go some way towards explaining why The Terror, a ten-part series which was actually made back by AMC in 2018, has finally aired on BBC this year, to great acclaim. Yet there’s far more to it than that: its basis on a horrendous real-life naval mission, augmented by a layer of supernatural content which adds still more to its ‘stranger in a strange land’ story, has been a masterclass in slow-burn, measured tale-telling. Its ten-episode structure was quite possibly a hard sell at first, but it works undeniably well. It allows a large number of characters to grow and develop, it allows the interplay between the men to become suitably complex and emotional, and it means that moments of extreme violence are be rationed very carefully, never replacing the drip-drip-drip of paranoia and certainly never turning The Terror into a high-action affair. This is instead a story of (largely) good people coming apart at the seams, in one of the most hostile environments on earth.
‘Man proposes, God disposes’
The journey from the real-life expedition to the series is an interesting one, coming to us via a 2007 novel by author Dan Simmons. Given that the crewmen of both ships, HMS Terror and HMS Erebus, were lost in around the year 1848, there exist no accurate first-hand descriptions of what happened: the final destination of both crews has instead been handed down piecemeal, reliant on a few statements given by neighbouring Inuit who confirmed that they did see some of the men, but were unable at that stage to really help, and by evidence gathered on subsequent exploratory missions. Simmons saw an opportunity to explore the fate of the Terror and the Erebus imaginatively, wondering what could have befallen them in the long years until it was confirmed that there were no survivors. From this, we get the screenplay, which itself alters some elements of the novel; like any good piece of folklore, it is now difficult to separate fact from fiction. Indeed, from the point of the ships’ loss speculation was rife, with the awful truth only much later getting extrapolated – the evidence of confusion, panic, illness, hypothermia, lead poisoning, even cannibalism. None of these men had quick, quiet deaths. Why were they there, in this place, for year upon year – slowly running out of hope, despite being well-provisioned and prepared? The purpose of the mission was to navigate the as-yet rumoured Northwest Passage, which would have provided a convenient trading route, a boon to British interests and reputation and a point in history when this was of rank importance. Problem was, the winter which set in during the early part of the voyage froze the ships solidly in place – and a thaw did not come. Hundreds upon hundreds of miles away from any help, the expedition floundered, failed, and ultimately led to the deaths of its crews. It’s an appalling waste and a tragedy.
“Not a man. Not a bear. Then what?”
This would, in itself, be sufficient for a gripping series; this environment is so alien, so barren to all but those native people who have spent millennia equipping themselves with the skills to survive, that any examination of this kind of microcosm would, with a cast like the one in the series, be worthwhile. Similarly to a late Victorian novel which begins with an expedition to find the North Pole before its own shift into supernatural content (The Purple Cloud), the descriptions of the voyage itself, and the interpersonal hell of confinement in the ice, is quite horror enough. Why, then, did Simmons and then The Terror’s screenwriters decide to add in the plot detail of the Tuunbaq, the demonic bear-like creature which begins to stalk the men?
It seems to resemble folklore of similar creatures described by indigenous populations, perhaps most notably the Wendigo, another malevolent entity known to Inuit people (and other First Nation peoples): the creature, often supposed to be in a hinterland between ravenous and starving, could consume people, or induce people to consume one another; psychiatry has co-opted this mythology as Wendigo Psychosis, the desire to cannibalise. It’s a possible parallel. The Tuunbaq itself is a creation of Simmons, but its presence in the novel/series emphasises the outsider horror by throwing the already-desperate men into a situation where they are ignorant of the rules, the specific dangers attached to this being. The Tuunbaq ‘belongs’ to an Inuit man, travelling with his daughter; when some of the men accidentally shoot and kill him, the being is then detached and rogue. For the crews of Terror and Erebus, it’s something of an Ancient Mariner moment, precipitating supernatural upon natural disasters.
The men’s increasing dread about being trapped in the ice is now compounded by a vengeful, seemingly unstoppable force – a polar bear, but not a polar bear, as it seems to have humanoid features. It’s an inventive piece of creature design, and the Tuunbaq’s association with a folklore which is closed off to the outsiders places them in an impossible situation. Any hope of truly coming to know the ropes is extinguished by the Inuit woman, now bereaved, needing to take her father’s place as responsible for the Tuunbaq; to symbolise this, she cuts the tongue from her mouth. There’ll be no easy exposition here, then. And, in the meantime, the creature, craving violence rather than food as such, picks its way through the crew. Pardon me another parallel, but there’s a touch of Game of Thrones in the way that The Terror has no compunction about killing off its highest-profile characters, and doing it early. And, graphically.
“An adventure of a lifetime…”
The careful, and shifting relationships between the men is a definite highlight of the series and affords another of The Terror’s positive qualities: by selecting a good cast and allowing their characters to really develop across ten episodes, there’s no sense here that these men – either their namesakes or their fictional versions – are in any way simply bad, or stupid men, or that they’re being punished in a straightforward way for being where they shouldn’t be. You would have to be incredibly heartless to see the plight of these men and boys and feel anything but horror and pity. Yet, this could have been written that way; it could have been a very one-dimensional critique of Empire-building and the people employed in it. This is addressed, sure, but it’s done in a very subtle way which allows the audience to think, rather than being told how to think. Of course, the pursuit of the Northwest Passage was – regardless of the clout and the preparation of the British Navy – disastrous, a decision which had not a little ambition and vanity behind it, ideals which have a tendency to turn out to be vivid, but rather brittle motivators.
Then, the commercial benefits of finding passage perhaps obscured acknowledgement of the risks, particularly hitherto-unpredictable ones. The crewmen, with to some extent the exception of the higher-ranking officers, had little idea what they were getting into, and the greater glory of the British Empire was probably a far lesser impetus for joining the expeditions than more personal reasons, right down to a need for employment and board. Even amongst the higher-ranking officers, it’s clear that there’s little consensus on values and ideals, with Captain Crozier (Jared Harris) on the receiving end of anti-Irish bigotry, both before putting sail and upon arrival. There are crew members who only want to do the right thing, in particular the tragic figure of Dr. Goodsir (Paul Ready), who defends Lady Silence, the Inuit woman (Nive Nielsen) and seeks to learn her culture. His final self-sacrifice is almost saint-like. For every upright assertion over the new, uncharted territory, and to counterbalance moments like the accidental killing of Lady Silence’s father, there’s a moment of sensitivity and vulnerability. Cornelius Hickey’s (or should that be ‘Cornelius Hickey’s’) attempts to claim men and terrain for himself underline the absurdity of attempting any such thing out there, and the desperation of the situation overall – with kudos to Adam Nagaitis for navigating his way from likeable and resourceful to ambiguous to villainous. His journey from unassuming to maniacal perhaps represents the worst of the impulse to conquer, but he by no means represents all of the men, and his comeuppance is a grim, oddly poetic sequence.
For the others, sadly, there is no spectacular ending, and it’s in keeping with the series as a whole that so much of the worst of the misery takes place off-screen. Just as with their historical counterparts, we simply don’t know what their death agonies were like, and somehow allowing that space for imagination makes it all worse. The final episode – with its momentary hallucinations of groaning tables and the beautiful brightness of the natural world – are amongst the series’ most touching moments, a fantasy which reiterates what these men have come to lack. The Terror almost – almost – allows a moment of hope at the end, but the damage done to Crozier has rendered him unable and unwilling to go back to the world he’s known. He lost all of his men – this is an immense, crippling stigma for a ship’s captain – and although Inuit kindness allows him to join their small community, the final shot which lingers on him shows his torment. He has survived, but the cost is great, and he certainly doesn’t miss out on his one opportunity to be saved out of some kind of renegade spirit. “Tell them,” he instructs his Inuit neighbour about to speak to the rescue team, “that we are dead. Gone.” The Terror is a remarkable piece of television.
Held (2020) presents us first of all with some uncomfortable scenes relating to women travelling alone: after an initial scene, which we return to later, we begin in full with Emma (Jill Awbrey) who is on her way to a weekend retreat: as she responds uneasily to the taxi driver who asks her if her husband minds her ‘being alone’ in such a place (before demanding a tip), we learn that this is a wedding anniversary treat, or more accurately, a make or break weekend for their struggling relationship of nine years. Anyway, the suspect taxi driver is a red herring perhaps, as she gets to her destination safely. Husband Henry (Bart Johnson) has booked a very nice place for them both; arriving there first, Emma settles in and it seems cool enough, meticulously neat, completely controlled by an internet security system which does all the things people used to be able to manage by themselves such as turning lights on, locking doors etc. (There’s a landline phone, though, which is front and centre from the start, making me wonder if it would in some ways soon be Plot Relevant.)
Anyway, Henry arrives and, despite his best efforts, things don’t immediately go smoothly. There’s clearly something quietly seething away here, which is in the unsaid as much as in what’s said: it turns out a change of bedroom can’t do that much by itself. Who knew? But things quickly gets worse even than that. After drinking some of the whiskey in the house, both Emma and Henry grow woozy and pass out. Emma wakes up the next morning in different nightwear than she went to sleep in; the roses, the anniversary messages, the fresh coffee…someone has been in the house.
Now it seems they’re bereft of their mobile phones and car keys too, the Barretts find they are locked in the house and under the control of an unknown person who begins to dictate to them, controlling their every move. Obedience, they’re told, is key. This unseen person can see them via a network of cameras, and compels them to behave. This begins with an enforced ‘happy marriage’ shtick, which is uncomfortable viewing and – despite the disguised voice telling them what to do which sounds like Jigsaw from the Saw franchise – this discomfort is far more effective than the prospect of noughties-style ordeal horror, though there are some horror elements here, and more as the film proceeds. The treatment of the topic of gender, key here, is interesting: first, each character defaults to the masculine/feminine stereotypes of active/passive, even on top of the dictates of the watching party or parties. This is all interwoven with a real spirit of meanness, removing people’s personal agency and revealing them in their absolute worst light. But things and expectations do shift, leading the film in some ways which I certainly didn’t expect. This is testament to Jill Awbrey who, as well as taking a starring role also wrote Held, and is able to move things in increasingly tense and surprising ways.
It was also good to see some characters in the roughly 35-45 age bracket who are characters in their own rights, not simply there as bit-part players or, more often, as parents, who exist in the screenplay on behalf of others. There are some parallels here to other recent films, most notably the hi-tech house and the strained relationship at the heart of Gatecrash (2020) or the all-controlling technological thriller Shook (2020), and whilst technology is perhaps given a bit more clout in Held even that it has, giving what seems to be omnipotence to its perpetrators, it is used well to explode unpalatable truths about the Barretts’ marriage. Yes, there are some familiar, even tropey elements in the film and a handful of clunky pieces of expositional dialogue, but the way in which Held escalates its action in some surprising ways is every bit as successful as its more subtle, sinister moments. The emotional torments on offer make for phenomenally bleak viewing, but the OTT revelations which follow are very entertaining and successful in their own right. Held offers chilling and exhilarating fare by turns – impressive, entertaining stuff, and well worth a look.
Magnet Releasing will release HELD in theatres and on demand April 9th, 2021.
Science fiction has become very low-key these days, hasn’t it? Perhaps it’s as a result of the way we’re already living with a lot of the technology – and repercussions – which much of classic sci-fi could only imagine. Now, we’re left to play catch-up, wondering what all of these developments and further developments can mean for us. The fantasy elements in sci-fi now often look more familiar, feel closer; they’re taken as a starting point, a new angle for looking at the human side of the equation. I Am (2021) is a very subtle and engaging example of this. If it has an overarching question, it’s probably: who deserves our sympathies here?
Noé (Sheri Hagen) lives alone and, often troubled by vivid dreams, she seems to live a fairly odd, isolated existence, picking up and fixing old pieces of tech which she finds in the woods. One day, she finds a defunct android (Melodie Wakivuamina), takes ‘her’ home and successfully repairs her. Once restored, the android seeks to orientate herself by seeking a purpose; she wants to work. But she also seems to have some very human fascinations. Noé laughingly asks the android, called Ela, if she has always answered every question with another question; perhaps Ela was programmed differently, she suggests. What is clear is that Ela is seeking some kind of purpose. She and Noé discover more about one another, but this development is ultimately not comfortable, profitable or desirable for Noé, whose good fortune at finding Ela quickly dwindles.
Jerry Hoffman’s direction here, alongside cinematography by Lena Katherina Krause, has lent this film a very attractive aesthetic. Noé’s frequent nightmares take place against the dark blues and purples of the woods outside, contrasted almost instantly against the warm, homely cabin where she lives. There’s a lot of either natural light or low light used, something which creates an appealing contrast against the world without, which is clearly a place of technological advancement, with creations such as Ela apparently littering the ground. Ela herself is very eerie: offering more contrasts, the interplay between the flesh of the actor and the super-subtle inclusion of tech fittings and trappings is very effective, retaining an ability to confuse the eye: one minute you are looking at a girl, and the next an item. Wakivuamina’s performance is highly effective; I felt very wary of what she was not telling. Also, her face gradually humanises over time as she asks the right questions of her new keeper. It’s another barely discernible, but important shift.
Noé keeps her own secrets as best as she can, but as her relationship with Ela changes, their dynamic changes. Their conversations go from a strange, uncomfortable Q&A, to a confessional – which turns out to be ill-advised – through a humorous truce to an unpleasant symbiosis, which Noé resists with some considerable, understandable fear. The origin of her nightmares not only becomes clear, but the film offers the distinct impression that they were in some ways foreshadowing events to come. The narrative here is perfectly fitted to a less-than-thirty-minute run time, taking a minimal number of plot elements and affording them enough time to come to fruition.
For all that, though, I Am holds a few questions back too, only giving us a glance at just what is really out there beyond the tree canopy whilst offering no cut-and-dried moral lesson. Everything which Ela asks of Noé, we could really ask of ourselves; accordingly, this is a surprisingly nuanced short film with a fine balance of visuals, narrative and aesthetics.
I AM (2021) will be featuring at the Cleveland International Film Festival from April 7th to April 20th.
In the first decade of the new millennium, Christopher Smith – alongside his contemporaries like Neil Marshall, Simon Rumley and Ben Wheatley – formed part of a new wave of British genre cinema, delivering some of the best, or at least most-discussed horrors of the Noughties along the way. Smith’s first feature-length was Creep (2004), a grisly and often suitably cruel tale of the fallout of abuse, essentially, splicing the gritty and the fantastical in a way which really worked for me: who hasn’t felt that twist of alarm that they’re about to find themselves alone in a deserted tube or train station? Moving fairly quickly to the blackly comic Severance (2006), to Triangle (2009) and then the historical horrors of Black Death (2010), Smith established himself as a leading light, but then – almost in parallel with Neil Marshall – moved quite sharply away from genre into other fare entirely. It’s another odd parallel that, by 2020, both Marshall and Smith are back at the horror, with oddly-similar sounding titles; Marshall has brought us The Reckoning, Smith, The Banishing. Ours not to reason why this has happened right now: it could be a rekindled passion for genre, it could be personal curiosity, or it could be plain expediency. In any case, it’s been some time.
Whatever the reason for the return to the horror genre, in The Banishing Smith has made a version of the classic ‘haunted house’ movie, albeit taking as its basis the quintessential haunted house: Borley Rectory (though here tweaked to become… Morley). He clearly has awareness of the almost sacred role the Borley legend has for many people, but he has also striven to demarcate his film from the others which use the same legend for a basis; even in the past few years there have been several. As a result, The Banishing at times travels down safe, recognisable haunted house trammels, but also abruptly overreaches for new elements: this makes the film feel slow in some aspects and cramped in others. And that’s not to mention some of the more peculiar changes made here.
We start hearing a young man extolling the benefits of avoiding the ‘pleasures of the flesh’, but as he reads from his Bible, he hears a noise: investigating, he stumbles upon a savage attack taking place, with a woman being stabbed in one of the rooms of this sprawling house. This juxtaposition of sexuality and violence may appear elsewhere, but it’s established early. We catch up to this situation a little later, the man responsible – a clergyman – having committed suicide after his crime. Bishop Malachi (John Lynch) arrives and orders a swift clean-up and cover up. The Church can shift when it wants to.
Time passes and, come 1938, the house has a new incumbent: Linus (John Heffernan) is a former missionary now tasked with retrieving a congregation for the church in Morley, as the community’s religious observance has lately lapsed. His wife Marianne (Jessica Brown Findlay) and her young daughter Adelaide (Anya McKenna Bruce) join him, though it’s no time before this new domestic set-up seems strained, largely by some as-yet undiscussed past. Then of course, the strange phenomena begin: bumps in the night, creepy dolls which seem to communicate with Adelaide (it’s odd that all spectres seem to solicit the company of children; surely there are malevolent deities out there somewhere who would run a mile). Linus receives advice to investigate his house’s history “before it’s too late”, which of course it is as soon as Marianne goes poking around. Never take a house cellar unseen.
There are some very good scenes and elements in The Banishing, always the better for subtlety, the ‘almost glimpsed’ rather than the shrieking jump cut. For all that, the film seems intent to just leave its characters adrift in the house for seemingly long periods of time, having established its haunted house credentials. Marianne is frequently the film’s focus but her developing understanding of what’s happening in the house comes slowly, underpinned by more than a couple of visions and dreams and a few expeditions where she literally sorts through evidence in the house.
These elements come across at a sedate pace, but by contrast, we are then given rapid moments of exposition to move things along and to provide plot. These often come via a frankly remarkable skit on famed ghost hunter Harry Price, who first appears early on in the film, for reasons a little unclear, performing a very depressed, almost comic dance routine with an unnamed lady. He’s back a little later, rather conveniently one might say, to fill us in: Price here is played as a kind of loafing, verbose ginger spiv, a remarkable turn from Possum’s Sean Harris who thereafter becomes the film’s resident psychic. The film certainly deviates from the Borley legend in all but a few key aspects. At times, The Banishing seems to be borrowing quite heavily from Poltergeist and The Orphanage; in others, it becomes a more metaphorical haunted house, unpicking and unpacking the anxieties of the inhabitants as, for instance, Relic does. Added to this, we hear mention of fascism on the rise in Europe and this is alluded to several times, but I don’t feel that this offers much to the film, other than a minor sense of contextual unease and the excuse for a few lines of clunking anti-fascist rhetoric from Marianne. All in all, in terms of writing, there are some odd decisions here.
The Banishing is by no means an awful film: it gets its period details right, it looks good, it has a good cast who play it in earnest, and it does at least try to bring together different types and aspects of haunted house horror, which shows the willingness to try innovative things. In the end though, it’s a very mixed bag, and it does feel as though Smith has felt the effects of a long detour away from the genre: The Banishing isn’t as seamless, as secure in itself as his earlier films. But much of that comes down to the writing, as this is a maiden voyage for writers Dean Lines, David Beton and Ray Bogdanovich, each more used to penning crime dramas. Essentially, horror fans are forgiving, but fussy creatures, and when you add to an already burgeoning sub-genre, you have to know that this will be scrutinised against all the best films in that genre. The Banishing effectively weaves a few moments of satisfying unease and it clearly has ambition, but these are crowded out by some over-busy, overstretching or plain confusing choices.
THE BANISHING is available now on digital platforms and will stream on Shudder beginning 15th April.
Now I’ve seen a lot of different genres and homages to genres in my time, but this is a first: I’ve never seen a Welsh Western before, much less imagined one which managed to add in more than a few elements of (dark) comedy. The Toll (not to be confused with last year’s Russian horror film of the same title) takes place in Pembrokeshire, the place where ‘the English go to die’, according to some welcoming graffiti. And, in true Western style, we appear to kick off with a confessional. Catrin (Annes Elwy) is a police officer in this quiet part of Wales where, ordinarily, there’s very little to do. That’s until she’s summoned to hear what the local toll booth operator – in true Welsh style, known by the same name as his profession, for the most part – has to tell her.
‘Toll Booth’ (Michael Smiley) has had quite a busy day, taking in a robbery, a chance encounter with an old affiliate whose criminal firm has been looking for him for thirty years, and having to fit this little lot around what would seem to be a thriving, if illegal enterprise of his own. Catrin, firstly, has to come to terms with the fact that a hell of a lot has been going on under her nose, and that her patch isn’t as remote as it might seem. Oh, and then there’s the small matter of the Morgan triplets (Gwyneth Keyworth x3) who have designs on a life of crime of their own, and need to be stopped before they Instagram themselves into a lot of trouble; think Spring Breakers on the Pembroke coast, balaclavas and all.
At first, I did find the timeline in The Toll quite confusing, and this is as a consequence of its ambitions in terms of its structure: it’s always a bit of a gamble, and as the script refers to this confusion itself at a couple of points, writer Matt Redd and director Ryan Andrew Hooper are clearly aware of that. It does begin to knit together nicely, though, and although it meanders, it adds in enough fun developments and makes enough connections to hold interest. There’s a great cast, with a few of the stalwarts of the British film scene – Steve Oram, Smiley, Gary Beadle, Julian Glover – though for me, the funniest interplay is between Paul Kaye as Cliff and Iwan Rheon as Dom. In the case of Rheon, it’s good to see him playing, if another rogue, a likeable rogue this time, with a lot of warmth to him. The film also captures the rhythms and subtleties of Welsh conversation, which is great to hear – even if, by the same token, the screenplay can’t resist a dig at the English and a comment about non-Welsh speakers; these are constants, it seems, an otherwise uncertain world. However, elsewhere, good characters and characterisation generate some genuinely funny moments – these can be physical, light-touch or even a bit crude, but they all work together.
The Western elements aren’t simply here at the start of the film, either: The Toll keeps at it, overlaying a Western-style soundtrack over the cliffs and hills of Wales, alluding openly to Westerns in a few scenes and of course, heading towards a big pay-off before the film is over. Does it have to do a fair bit to justify its big pay-off? Yeah, but overall it hangs together well, and it manages a couple of additional surprises before the credits roll. At just an hour and twenty minutes, The Toll pitches things right: it feels as though there’s a lot going on, but actually, this is an economical film, one which tells an interesting yarn in an entertaining way. If there’s to be any more Welsh Western crime drama comedies, I’d happily watch them.
The Toll (2021) featured as part of the WOW Film Festival in March 2021. For more information, click here.
Far From the Apple Tree is an engaging, if oblique study of the creative process: it takes in ideas of the ‘muse’, although it does so from a different perspective than usual, and it’s a considered, thoughtful piece of film which looks fantastic. We start out with an opening night at a gallery: one of the attendees, Judith (Sorcha Groundsell) is mesmerised by the photography on display by artist Roberta Rosslyn (Victoria Liddelle), and it seems that Judith has more than a passing interest in the medium herself, hoping to strike out with a career of her own. But we see her getting knocked back from a college place to study photography; getting established is clearly no mean feat.
Judith is surprised, then, to receive a call from Rosslyn herself, who says that she has ‘seen something’ in her and wishes to make her an offer. Judith is offered a kind of residency at Roberta’s home, cataloguing her photographic work. It’s a tantalising enough deal that Judith accepts, despite a few dubious internet searches about the artist’s background and her eventful life. Judith has to move in, but she has the offer of an exhibition herself at the end of the residency. The two women, alongside domestic help Suzy (Lynsey-Anne Moffat) begin to build a relationship. It’s at times strained, not least by the fact that Judith notices an uncanny likeness between herself and Maddy, Roberta’s deceased – or at least absent – daughter, and frequent model for her earlier work. Roberta suggests that her creativity has been extinguished since Maddy’s absence, but she hopes with this new impetus, she can get it back. As Judith gets to work, she herself becomes obsessed with Maddy both as a muse and as a girl whose disappearance is suspicious. The process of archiving Roberta’s work is spell-like, and the further Judith proceeds, the more tenuous her grasp on reality becomes.
The doppelgänger motif is a well established idea, particularly in horror cinema – which Far From the Apple Tree is in some respects a part of – and here it’s explored in terms of a better, more proficient version of self. Judith longs for the kind of presence and artistic nous which Maddy seems to have, and obsesses over her, as a figure both present and absent. Roberta is an interesting figure, refusing to be drawn on Maddy’s true whereabouts and an at-times overbearing presence in Judith’s life, which suggests from very early on in the film that she, too, sees Maddy in Judith. But all told, plot is not the key consideration here: you certainly get enough to justify the goings-on, but this is not a film which prioritises its narrative. Just as the art world forms the backdrop for Far From the Apple Tree, so the film itself is heavily artistic. It’s all strangely engrossing, and it looks amazing: this is a film which understands the power of a well-photographed and lit take, which it layers upon other well-photographed, well-composed scenes. There is an array of different cameras and shots, great interiors, a wealth of warm lighting, all interspersed with some of the more standard ‘trippy’ footage, but the overall impact is a positive one and the film looks stylish and engaging throughout.
I was also impressed by the natural, plausible characterisation: as much as Far From the Apple Tree looks the part, it also demonstrates some careful, light-touch writing, particularly for the growing relationship between Judith and Roberta, whose dynamic shifts around: at some points Roberta is maternal, at others she’s a difficult boss, and at others she’s a lost, vulnerable person in her own right. It’s all nicely done, and Judith’s attempts to deal with this whilst understanding the bigger picture of what is unfolding around her definitely holds interest. The whole focus on analogue tech is ubiquitous at this point; it does have a point to it here, though, which extends beyond simple nostalgia. And as for how all of this sounds, Rose McDowall provides the soundtrack and her style of neofolk works absolutely perfectly.
Far From the Apple Tree is an atmospheric piece of film with visual and musical flair: it works really well on these terms, and so long as you are okay with storytelling being lower in the mix than how the story is actually told, then there is plenty here to enjoy.
Far From the Apple Tree is available to stream via Redemption TV. Also available to buy on DVD: coming soon.
Sci-fi of all stripes has often been naturally inclined towards exploring quantum theory: this alternative means to define reality lends itself to intriguing examinations of the human condition, which potentially makes for good cinema. It’s very much the case in Infinitum: Subject Unknown, a low-key but adventurous and thought-provoking low-budget film which spins together some very contemporary concerns with its own focus on quantum theory. We get a brief abundance of plot at the beginning, which goes some way towards establishing the opening premise (a sequence which also contains cameos by Ian McKellen and Conleth ‘Yes, Varys from Game of Thrones’ Hill). In the world of Infinitum, the ‘paraverse’ is a real phenomenon; it’s now largely seen as a place which affords great potential for human development, even potential evolution. But, to take advantage of this potential, subjects are needed.
Cue a glimpse of a familiar, but unfamiliar world with a woman waking, afraid and confined in an attic. It’s clear enough that she has no memory of where she is, or why; as she struggles to get free, she begins to experience split visions which indicate other ‘strands’ of reality concurrent with her own, with this point being neatly made by a glimpse through a nearby window momentarily revealing a very different scene outside. The woman (Tori Butler-Hart) therefore has some sense that her situation and environs are not quite right, but she instinctively knows that she must escape from this room. Wavering moments of consciousness impede her progress, and more than this she begins to undergo what she half-hears – from somewhere – are called ‘resets’, at which point she finds herself back in the same situation as she was when this all began. This continues, alongside the sense of having done it all before, which grows ever more pervasive. As the film progresses, it takes on the feel of being a puzzle to solve, with clues – recurring or otherwise – to be used. Steadily, the woman comes to understand that she needs to get to a place called the Wytness Centre, which we know is integral in this kind of human experimentation. But what is the best way to proceed, in a world of endless variables and possibilities?
There’s a great deal to commend here, but it does bear saying that the sci-fi at play in Infinitum is very subtle, with little emphasis on anything flashy or grand – at least, in the way of effects. There’s some, sure, but this is more used to reiterate the strangeness of Jane’s situation, adrift in a place which she doesn’t understand (which would scarcely be less odd even without the strange things she does see). There is a framework given however, hence the few ‘talking heads’ sequences featuring McKellen and Hill, and this is repeated later in the film: this helps to re-centre the film and its subject matter. It’s pretty unbelievable, by the by, that this was all shot on an iPhone. Not so long back this would have marked out a film as an interesting idea rather than necessarily a successful one, but how times have changed: whilst Infinitum is clearly shot on handheld, it’s impressive in quality and looks great. The re-use of the opening scenes to establish the helplessness of the protagonist is a little challenging – a kind of quantum Groundhog Day, if you like – but quicker edits help to move things along, without losing that important sense of Jane’s frustration. It’s very much Tori Butler-Hart’s film, by the way: whilst it’s great to have Ian McKellen and Conleth Hill on board for their roles, Butler-Hart is on-screen for almost every second, and a lesser actress could easily have lost the audience. She pitches it perfectly given the situations unfolding around her, and she does most of it without saying anything.
Does Infinitum: Subject Unknown resemble any other films out there? Perhaps in some respects, given its close focus on the implications of time, space and place shifting into something ungovernable: Synchronic (2019) came to mind in places, as in some ways, and I’m being in earnest here, so did that Tarkovsky-style of sci-fi which takes a minimal cast and a science-fiction premise and then explores its impact on the psyche, rather than plumping for emphasis on visuals. That all being said, there are also some surprising similarities to supernatural horror rather than sci-fi; the idea of a character who cannot understand what is happening to them or why they are alone reminded me of films like The Others (2001), to name but one. The rootlessness and fear, whether because of quantum physics or more supernatural causes, is similar.
But perhaps it’s the way in which contemporary concerns have crept into the sci-fi of Infinitum which will, in time, be one of its chief calling cards. It’s a film in which time is the only constant, but in its way, it’s a snapshot of an extraordinary time. The use of deja-vu, claustrophobia, anxieties about both present and future, loneliness and of course a deserted outside world which is both desirable and threatening; well, it’s not hard to see the lockdown during which this film was shot finding expression here, alongside the more fantastical content. All in all, Infinitum does a good job with its ideas and initiative, and it’s a subtle, unconventional and often surreal take on the horrors which could be sparked by science.
Infinitum: Subject Unknown hits VOD on 22nd March and DVD this April.
We don’t cover a great deal of music here on Warped Perspective, but I’m delighted for that to start changing, and better still, to get to run a piece with vocalist and guitarist Jordan Guerette: I’ve liked his other band, Falls of Rauros, for some time: if you enjoy progressive black metal which blends with melancholic folk, then I recommend last year’s album Patterns in Mythology (and then work back from there to their previous releases). However, our contact came about via Jordan’s newer project, Forêt Endormie. The project is actually a departure from metal, being instead a chamber ensemble making use of varied instrumentation and vocals: it’s difficult to pin down, but it’s certainly experimental, and has a gentle, morose style which brings elements of folk to the fore. It’s beautiful, a random Bandcamp find which really rewards attention. Jordan was kind enough to talk to me about his music and his inspirations.
WP: So firstly, talk us through where the idea for Forêt Endormie comes from. Outside of Falls of Rauros, was it always your intention to do something of this kind?
JG: The idea for Forêt Endormie goes back to 2010 or so, while I was studying composition as an undergrad. I was really interested in starting a project that would be a vehicle for my more “classical” compositions, and would be equally at home performing in a concert hall or rock venue. I liked the idea of making albums with a dedicated group rather than rely on getting my music programmed on classical “New Music” concerts. I also wanted to include elements – like my voice – that don’t really fit in with what usually gets programmed on classical concerts. It took several years of gestation but in 2016 I wrote a piece called “String and Hammer Quintet” while working on my graduate degree, and I asked the musicians who I wrote it for to basically “start a band” with me. These folks became the first iteration of Forêt Endormie.
WP: Your lyrics and titles are all in French: can you please tell us more about the importance of this aspect of the project?
JG: The French language has long been a passion of mine. I am finishing up my seventh year as a French teacher in a public high school, and French language was my secondary area of study while at university. I also noticed that a lot of the composers that resonated with me were French or Belgian – Debussy, Satie, Messiaen, des Prés.
I feel connected to the language ancestrally and I do feel like it suits the music that I write. I also feel more comfortable singing in a language that’s not my mother tongue, although I recognize that may sound strange. It’s kind of like there’s a little bit of distance between the words I write and how they impact me emotionally. Singing in French sort of lets me be more detached from what I’m singing about, almost like I’m ridding myself of it.
When we’re performing locally it’s reassuring that most of our local audience can’t understand the intensely personal lyrics that I’m singing. Although, a French friend of mine saw us live in Portland and said that he couldn’t understand the words either, so…
WP: What different musical styles influence Forêt Endormie? I noted a lot of what I’d describe as an English folk sound – does that sound accurate, at least to an extent?
JG: You’re definitely on to something! Since I was small I have loved music that is influenced by “English folk” and “Celtic” music, including scores to fantasy movies and video games. I think my introduction to these styles came through New Age music, like Enya, and a compilation of Celtic/New Age music that my Dad and I used to listen to a lot when I was small (The Celtic Heartbeat Collection 2). Another early exposure was playing Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Folk Song Suite in my high school’s concert band – the melodies and harmonic movement in that piece stuck out to me among the music I was learning at that age.
Today, I love John Dowland, Pentangle, Loreena McKennitt, Paul Giovanni & Magnet’s score to The Wicker Man.
WP: You have a very diverse set of musicians working alongside you in Forêt Endormie. How do each of your different backgrounds and styles come together on this project?
JG: I am fortunate to play with musicians who are specialists in different styles and professionally perform jazz, Arabic music, western classical music, and progressive metal. I think a common thread is that most of us went to university for music and are able to read notation and discuss music with a high degree of nuance. Also, everyone I play with is versatile, and listens to all sorts of different music rather than just sticking to their chosen genres. This is important for me – not that a musician “listens to everything” necessarily, but doesn’t box themselves in and is musically curious.
Even more than that, everybody I play with is an extremely thoughtful person, and I am fortunate to be friends with them. I think that has a positive effect on the music!
WP One of your lyrical themes is based around the harshness of the natural world – rather than the picturesque, it’s more centred on the dangerous or the downright hostile in nature. This seems similar to the ideas held during the Romantic era, this idea of nature dwarfing and dominating mankind. What draws you to this kind of focus in your lyrics?
JG: We tend to view nature just as this beautiful thing, because that’s how most of us get to experience it. In my privileged life, I experience nature this way too. And obviously the natural world is beautiful, no question about it. Every climate, every region of the world is pretty amazing. But we live so comfortably and are sheltered from the sheer brutality and uncaringness that is also a part of the natural world. I used to romanticize this idea in my head and sometimes out loud, that we’d better off giving up our comfortable lives and returning to a simpler society, but now, I’m aware of how privileged I am to be able to live in a warm home and have plenty of time to write music. Almost no one in human history can say that.
That being said, I do think that our comfort can sometimes amplify anxiety and depression. For people like me, who have no god or really any spiritual aspect to their lives, it is difficult to grapple with those questions like “what’s my purpose?” when our needs for food and shelter are met relatively easily, at least compared to our ancestors. Lots of time to focus on our individual selves can make us feel like our personal problems are more important and urgent than they are.
So during the writing of Une voile déchirée I was working through these ideas, and conjuring a sense of place and how we are all just temporarily visiting these places seemed to help me expel some personal anxiety. The places and imagery on the record are hostile to humans – the open ocean, underneath storm clouds, a growing forest fire, barren fields – and are metaphors for obstacles we face in our lives, reminders that we’re part of a bigger picture.
WP: What do you feel you can do, thematically and lyrically, with this kind of chamber music which may elude other musical styles?
JG: I think I can take advantage of more different sonic colors, than in more rock-based styles. There is a relatively set instrumentation in Forêt Endormie but I have left it open enough that I feel we could really use whatever instruments we want on the next record. This is less true in other styles, metal especially, that rely on a certain instrumentation. I really, in the context of Forêt Endormie, can do whatever I want musically, which is quite fulfilling.
Lyrically, I have thought about how a more narrative concept album could work well in the context of Forêt Endormie. I also feel no obligation to write “verses” and “choruses”, in fact, I feel a strong push not to.
WP: Forêt Endormie is a quite young band which has always existed in the digital age – alongside the likes of Spotify, Bandcamp and so on. To your mind, what are the pros and cons of being a musician during this time?
JG: As someone who released their first albums in the mid-noughties and so never had a pre-Internet music career, I actually do think that for what I do artistically, the landscape has never been better. It seems like there are more people listening to more different styles of music than ever before, and I’ve been really fortunate to receive the attention of some of these listeners. I just don’t think that the older model of marketing through record stores would have allowed me the career I’ve had so far. And that’s nothing against record stores! I love them and I was a record store manager before I was a teacher. I know a lot of people lament the current state of the industry, and many musicians are worse off than they were 30 years ago, but I actually somehow feel optimistic about the state of the music industry.
WP: And finally – I’m interested to hear about any of your future plans, with Forêt Endormie or anything else – Covid-19 of course allowing…
JG: During COVID I’ve been working on a lot of new music and I’m making the transition to doing music full-time. Falls of Rauros has written and recorded a new album in the last several months – we actually just approved the masters a few days ago! That should be out later this year, hopefully during the summer. I’m also composing music for video games, one of which is called Revenot and is out in beta (“pre-release” version) for Android. I’m also scoring a short film in the spring. A new Forêt Endormie album will come together over the next several months, with plans to release in 2022.
As far as live performance goes, it’s hard to make plans right now. Some of the festivals I was booked on have been cancelled two or three times already, so I’m not really even considering trying to make plans to play live until conditions improve. Normally, I perform often, and it’s been strange to not have that as a part of my life, but it has afforded me more time to write. Forêt Endormie hasn’t played a single show since the release of Une voile déchirée, and it is starting to seem like we’ll have another record out before playing live again!
Thank you so much for the opportunity to chat about our music!
WP: Thank you Jordan! You can check out the band and support them on Bandcamp: check them out here. The Falls of Rauros page is here.
Dementer sets out everything it’s going to do in its first few minutes – and, to its detriment, it doesn’t move forward from there. Firstly, we get the horror archetypes – the backwoods setting, the naked girl running through crop fields to a discordant soundtrack, the intimations of something occult – and then, bam, we’re given something not just realistic, but in some respects real, with a cast of largely non-actors, at least a few of whom are unlikely to have realised that they’re in a film at all. This feels like an odd lurch from one thing to another, and unfortunately, this weak link between supernatural/psychological and real overshadows the rest of the film, never being united by a narrative nor leading to any sort of tangible finale.
After the trippy intro, we are introduced to Katie (Katie Groshong), just at the point she gets a new job as a care assistant at a home for adults with mental disabilities. She seems to settle well, but it seems there’s more to Katie. To piece it together, she seems to be rootless, detached from her friends and family whilst occasionally spending time with an odd clan, and she’s undergoing unsettling hallucinations which impinge on the day to day. As she explains to the other care staff, she isn’t much of a sleeper, anyway. Using a notebook – one of her only possessions – she begins going over and over instructions for some sort of ritual. These preparations involve one of the residents, a woman with Down’s Syndrome called Stephanie (Stephanie Kinkle, director Chad Crawford Kinkle’s sister). Stephanie starts to get ill around the same time, but is that as a result of the ritual, or is the ritual intended to be protective?
To be clear, I was a huge fan of Jug Face, the debut feature by the same director, and continue to regard it really highly: I said back in 2013 that I was excited by what it promised for the future, and given its sense of style, its execution and its great cast (Larry Fessenden returns in Dementer for a brief appearance), it more than holds up. Of course, getting independent films made is tough going, which may well be why it’s been some time between that film and this; also, by no means are filmmakers expected to take the same trajectory in later works – even though there is some slight overlap between Jug Face and Dementer, as seen in the presence of an unknown occult force which impacts upon the unsuspecting. Okay. But, sadly, there’s little sense of the finesse of the earlier film here, even given that its abstract nature is deliberate. It’s very unpolished, with lots of unscripted conversation which ebbs and lulls, but then gets drowned out with the ‘surreal’ elements: footage of shorthand-for-creepy objects such as dolls, candles and bones, a relentlessly twanging soundtrack and a voiceover intoning about blood and devils. It’s by no means an issue solely in Dementer, but there needs to be a moratorium on thinking that a few shots of antlers etc. by night give us all the atmosphere we could ever hope for. Creepy objects are okay when they’re grounded in a narrative; I simply don’t think they do the job alone. Likewise, insinuations of animal cruelty are unwelcome. It’s a funny thing, but many of the issues which I had with Sator, made in the same year as Dementer, match up, albeit that Sator is as painfully quiet as Dementer is occasionally loud. Some audiences clearly can and do forgive much in the pursuit of atmospherics and mood; others need more explication, a sense of a direction of travel. A fractured mind alone is not enough for me.
It pains me to have had this experience as, in several respects, Crawford Kinkle has made some brave decisions in his inclusions here. It is still beyond rare to see the world which is inhabited by people with profound learning difficulties, as if you don’t work in that world or visit people who live in it, you’ll barely be aware of it. It’s reality, but an almost parallel reality, not one which most people would recognise. Rarer still is it to centre your film on a person with Down’s Syndrome and do so sensitively; Stephanie Kinkle is obviously quite profoundly affected by her condition, something which no doubt created special considerations, but at no point is anything here tokenistic. That is commendable, as much as it’s unusual. I believe that Chad Crawford Kinkle is a talented filmmaker who took a swing at some unexpected stylistic decisions and inclusions here; it’s clear to see that, but Dementer simply lacks too much explication and development to really work as a cohesive, gripping film.
Dementer (2019) released to VOD on 2nd March 2021.
Lots of film fans thoroughly enjoy the make-up effects which contribute so much to the quality of our favourite horror films, and god knows we all have our own opinions about film FX, but not so many of us know much about it as an industry in its own right. With that in mind, I thought it would be fun to ask an established MUFX artist, Ruth Pease, about her work. She’s been doing it for around twelve years now: you can see a little more of what Ruth gets up to by supporting her on Instagram: 4th Storm, and her new project, Actual Witch Hands (more on which shortly!) I’ve known Ruth for a long time and we lived together for a while, too, at around the time that she was first getting interested in making human limbs out of latex or doing up her mates as (very grisly) zombies: it wasn’t so unusual to receive a text asking me to ‘keep the clay head in the lounge hydrated’, or similar! Anyway, without further ado…
WP: thanks for talking to the site! OK so, my first couple of questions are probably going to address some questions others may have, as I know lots of people are interested in your line of work without maybe knowing that much about its finer points. Tell us: what did you do in terms of training, and how was getting established as a make-up artist after you qualified?
RP: It took a long while to figure out that I wanted to pursue a career in makeup. After many existential detours and a variety of call centre and night shift jobs, I decided I wanted to be a mortician – but on the realisation that I couldn’t afford the courses and didn’t even have a science GCSE, I turned up at Bristol College on sign-up day with no idea. Having spent most of my youth watching horror, I signed up to Film Studies, wrote a script about a man who ate himself and came to the conclusion that making a living out of blowing people’s heads up (I watched a lot of Troma) would be a cool way to live. Horror was kind of the only thing I knew about.
I did a lot of playing around with fake blood and amputating my fingers at home & then signed up to a Media Makeup Diploma, completed that and did a Specialist Makeup Design degree in London.
Following that was a couple of years of being broke as hell, using every penny to get to interviews for short films I wasn’t going to be paid to design. Many, many low/no pay jobs later while working in a film makeup shop, I’d built up enough contacts to start actually living as a freelance artist. But even now, I never feel like I can relax and work will just flow in – you’ve got to be pretty resilient and do a lot of hustling. Somehow I’m still lucky enough to be working.
WP: What do people not realise about your profession?
Sometimes it can be incredibly unglamorous – waking up at 4am to drag your body weight in kit across London to potentially start your day with shaving someone’s arse may not be what people imagine I guess – but that’s been a genuine day for me. It’s all kind of like the Wild West out there – I’ve had to fight production companies who decided not to pay my team after two months of solid work. I’ve worked a 23-hour day from “Action” to “Wrap” before. There’s a lot of imbalance – there’s still a lot of diversity issues, nepotism, bullying and general bullshit. But I’ve also met some of the most inspiring, kind and talented people – it’s a ridiculously fun and creative job, so as long as you try to support the people who need and deserve it. By blocking out the negativity and staying grounded, it’s very rewarding. I’m (almost) always incredibly thankful to be hired for each job. But there’s definitely highs and lows – as with anything!
WP: Tell us about some of your favourite kinds of SFX to work on…
By far my favourite work is anything horror-related – anything nostalgic is even better! I love recreating injuries, throwing blood around and making everything look like it’s from the 80s. I like the challenge of making something genuinely scary using practical makeup – there’s so much reliance on jump scares and CGI mouths gaping-open type stuff. It’s so much fun to create something that’s just horrible on its own.
WP: And, following on from that question, what have been some of your favourite film or TV projects, and why? What would be an absolute dream-come-true project for you?
Weird fun horror related projects are always the best – everything I’ve ever done with Prano Bailey-Bond has been incredible, so Censor really was a total dream. Her interests are very similar to mine, so I’m always so grateful to be involved in anything she creates. Likewise, Richard Peter Hunter is one of my favourite directors to work with: check out Skeletons, a short film about an ageing sex line worker who escapes a crooked marriage after she falls in love with a corpse. It involved slit throats, stabbings, a smashed in skull & lots of creative makeup…. although, not all of it made the cut.
A dream come true project would be something that combines horror and comedy like Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace or Extra Ordinary. I obviously love gore – but working on a comedy set is such a great experience because it truly relies on people enjoying themselves. So combine that with a few buckets of blood or turning someone into broccoli & it’s definitely the dream!
WP: Of course lockdown (or lockdowns!) will have had an impact on your work, as is the case for practically everyone in the country right now. As you see it, what has that impact been like for the film and TV industries and how has it personally affected you?
My first thoughts were, wow – I have the worst job for this situation! Then followed the panic and the realisation that I have zero transferable skills. The rare jobs I had during lockdown often involved me not being allowed to actually apply makeup, instead having to direct the cast and creepily stare over their shoulder while they did their own makeup, which was incredibly frustrating and not ideal for anyone. Turning up to work looking like you’re an extra from The Crazies was challenging, too. It’s definitely made me consider how sustainable a career like this can be in these apocalyptic times. That’s not even taking into consideration about how Brexit might affect things too. Might be time to get that Science GCSE!
WP: If you had to nominate three make-up effects practitioners who are particularly special to you – either personally influential, or you otherwise admire their work – who would they be?
Greg Nicotero – not only such a lovely guy, but the absolute king of zombies – plus he rocked a mullet in the 80s and embodied everything I thought was awesome about those crucial years of MUFX. Plus he tolerated me drunkenly breaking into the VIP area of Fright Fest 16 years ago to talk to him about a gore zine I was making called ‘Hammered Spleen’.
Rob Bottin – His work on The Thing was and probably still is the most incredible MUFX I’ve ever seen. His dedication to the beautiful work he created was so above and beyond that, by the end of filming, he was hospitalised. He grew up with a passion for horror and monsters and clearly brings that into everything he does. I’ve never met him, but I’d like to think he was a cool dude, too.
Dan Martin – Dan is a wonderful bloke and I’ve worked with him a few times now, including on Censor. Not only has he done some of the most incredible & hideous FX in recent times – including the horrifically realistic scene of the death of Dead in Lords Of Chaos, but also the wonderfully disturbing creatures in Color Out Of Space. He’s one of the busiest people I know, but always seems to make time to help you out, plus he’ll join in with your on set weirdness too, because basically he’s just as big a horror nerd as the rest of us… actually, more so!
WP: Do disasters happen? Have you had any experiences which have been particularly exasperating or otherwise not what you’d want? Of course, you don’t have to name any names!
Oh hell yes! Luckily I’ve escaped mainly unharmed from such examples – but I remember a time when we set up a whole slit neck scene – the actor was hanging upside down, waiting to be drenched in blood, everything went perfectly, apart from the camera wasn’t recording and we had to pretty much re-set from scratch, but by this point the slit was a reservoir of blood & just wouldn’t look as good as the first (non) take.
There was a time we had to book a well known actor in to what we thought was a salon to get a spray tan – it turned out to be a tent in someone’s lounge – luckily they had a good sense of humour! Then there’s the times cast forget to have a prosthetic injury removed and go off into the world looking like they should be dead. I know one guy had an ambulance called for him! There’s many more – but I dare not tell most of them!
WP: How can filmmakers best work with make-up teams to get the best experience, in your professional view?
There’s been many times when MUFX is seen as a real time consuming pain in the arse. They have to give up a lot of time for application, there’s often a big re-set if everything gets covered in blood – probably a costume change too. I think it’s always good to have a proper conversation with shot by shot story boards, so you know exactly what will be seen and how the director wants it to be played out so you can plan it well in advance. Often you’ll ask for 45 minutes to do an application and watch the time disappear, knowing the AD will ask if you can do it in five minutes instead. If you know there’s going to be a complicated MUFX scene in the day – give it the time it needs. Trust your artist – shoot the closeups first, so it looks fresh and at its best. Most importantly, make sure your artist has all the caffeine they need.
WP: You were involved in the much-awaited and upcoming horror movie Censor: tell us a little about that…
Censor was the dream project I’d always wanted to work on. I’d worked with director Prano Bailey-Bond for a few years including HMU designing her horror shorts, Shortcut and Nasty. She’s an incredible director, plus just a really lovely, kind and enthusiastic person. Censor is 80s horror set in the Video Nasty era – something close to my heart, having spent my youth watching dodgy copied VHS tapes of banned horror with this particular interviewer! (Halcyon days! – Keri.) We wanted it to look like an authentic British 80s world, so I did weeks of research watching episodes of Crimewatch and local council films from the era. Plus, it was a great reason to rewatch the Video Nasty list and episode of Shoestring.
Every department were incredible, so you knew it was going to be special.
We have Dan Martin to thank for all the great gore you seen in the film, but obviously I can’t give any of that away! I pretty much spent the whole of the shoot staring at Niamh Algar’s forehead as she wears a wig for the entire film – but what a forehead! She was so much fun to work with and her performance was totally mesmerising. I had such an amazing team (Bethany Lewis and Hannah Belford) and it made the whole shoot a joy to work on.
WP: And finally, can you tell me anything about any exciting upcoming projects – current events notwithstanding?
I’ve heard pubs are opening soon!
But apart from that exciting news – I actually spent seven weeks last year in Estonia shooting a horror-themed multiple choice interactive feature, which will be available on app Whatifi at some point very soon! Lots of blood and madness!
Also, during lockdown I started an online store called Actual Witch Hands – selling shirts featuring weird occult themed illustrations I’ve created. It’s been really cool to do something different but equally creative and, of course, horror inspired!
I’m really just looking forward to seeing Censor in a proper cinema and for everyone else to see it, too!
