3 Descents-Into-Absolute-Madness out of 4
Scottish novelist Irvine Welsh is renowned for his harrowing portrayal of Edinburgh life. Instead of focusing on the beauties of Scottish living, he chooses to show the world a side of Scotland that we might never have a chance of experiencing firsthand. Drug abuse, prostitution, police ineptitude, and mind-boggling social corruption always take centre-stage in Welsh’s Scotland. Director Jon S. Baird’s Filth, with a screenplay written by Baird based on a novel by Welsh, takes everything that’s so wicked and captivating about Welsh’s Scotland, and sprints with it.
Starring James McAvoy in one of his most daring roles since The Last King of Scotland, Filth is brutal, pornographic, vicious, and utterly enchanting. What truly allows the film to shine is the way in which it utilizes tropes and ideas from various genres, and juxtaposes themes into a cohesive whole. Like a noir-caper, the film opens with a grainy shot of a woman getting ready for a night on the town. Like a social-minded thriller, the film features the gang-related murder of a foreigner. Like a Scorsese gangster flick, Filth forces the audience to gradually fall for a dismal example of a human being. Tonal shifts are frequent, and Baird’s directing brings a purposely complex and muddy story to cinematic fruition.
Some might call Filth a tonally confused feature; however, I believe it is through oft-jarring tonal inconsistencies that Filth is able to offer the audience a glimpse into the mind of a man slowly going mad. McAvoy, who plays Bruce Robertson – a scheming Detective Sergeant in the Edinburgh police force – is joined by a cast of equally talented actors playing disgusting characters. Jamie Bell and Eddie Marsan are especially fascinating in their roles as Robertson’s precinct partner and best friend, respectively.
…brutal, pornographic, vicious, and utterly enchanting.
Watching Bell and Marsan, one easily understands how the weak-willed and easily manipulated can fall prey to the damning pull of insanity.
However, Filth is undeniably McAvoy’s film, and the full-bodied way in which he portrays Robertson is reminiscent of Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance as Jordan Belfort in Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street. So emotive is McAvoy’s Robertson, so fascinating is his character, that the audience is unable to look away as he fulfils the role of obscene-character-in-an-obscene-world.
I’ve made it a point to only explain my rating of a film once in the past, but I believe it’s only appropriate to explain why I haven’t rated Filth any higher despite my praise. In short, the film reminds me too much of other similar movies – including several of Martin Scorsese’s finest. Instead of standing on its own merits, I found that Filth reminded me too much of other movies featuring similar characters and plots. Moreover, because of the possible comparisons that can be drawn to The Wolf of Wall Street, Goodfellas, and even Jude Law’s Dom Hemingway, it’s difficult to rate McAvoy’s performance any higher.
Without giving away too much, I also found the film’s ending to be weak and undeserved, especially given its pedigree and heritage. Audiences have spent the past few years growing attached to foul characters. Some of literature’s finest stories have come from the fact that redemptive happy endings are not always possible. That Filth insists on finding a way to rationalize Robertson’s behaviour is insulting to the audience.
Despite my hesitations, praise must be awarded to Clint Mansel’s music, Matthew Jensen’s cinematography, and Mark Eckersley’s editing. An eclectic score of upbeat feel-goods are carefully juxtaposed with hard-edits of unnerving crudeness in a way that enables the audience to truly understand the incomprehensible throes of madness.
In short, I liked Filth. I liked McAvoy’s Robertson, I enjoyed Baird’s directing, and Irvine Welsh’s talent clearly lives on.