[Film] FILTH (Dir. Jon. S. Baird)

Starring: James McAvoy, Eddie Marsan, Imogen Poots, Jamie Bell, Jim Broadbent, John Sessions, Shirley Henderson

If you have half a brain on you (Most Halifax Collect readers), and you keep an eye on current trends in pop culture (Likely not a lot of Halifax Collect readers), you may have noticed that things have gotten decidedly more full-on hedonistic, more “Rock and Roll” with pop music over the last couple of years. True, pop music has always concerned itself with the principles of pleasure, but listen to any pop-centric radio station these days and it’s an endless stream of songs that display a balls to the wall, apocalyptic “Party like there’s no tomorrow” attitude of constant consumption. Showing a mix of existential crisis (“Life is shit, everything’s fucked”) and nihilistic abandon (“Who cares? Let’s keep partying!!”), from Pitbull to Kei$ha the message is clear - just keep going, push it harder, buy that shit, drink those drinks, pop those pills, fuck those holes, redline those dopamine levels. Just don’t think… or care… about anything. Yet for all these demands that we keep on partying and have good times, the end effect is something that feels hollow and desperate, a band aid that can’t quite cover over the gaping depression that is modern life.
It’s this cultural backwash that strangely that popped into my head when seeing Filth the other day. Directed by Jon S. Baird and adapted from the controversial book of the same name by Irvine Welsh, it’s a film that almost revels in its vulgarity and nihilism as it shows one man’s decent into shit strewn purgatory, yet often seems as if it’s trying to pass itself off as a bit of a rollicking good time.

The film stars James McAvoy as DS Bruce Robertson, an Edinburgh policeman who is as vile and crooked as they come, the sort of guy who would not only steal candy from a baby, but also fit said baby up on murder and drugs charges. Straight from the off and throughout the film, we see him ingest copious amounts of booze, drugs and porn, plant evidence, beat up suspects, lie, cheat and steal, right up making obscene phone calls, forcing underage girls to perform oral sex on him, and having BDSM-laced affairs with the wives of his colleagues. Oh and to top it off, he’s racist, homophobic, misogynistic and displaying virulent sectarianism. Not so much a case of Bad Lieutenant, more like Worse Lieutenant.
The film begins with a murder of a Japanese tourist during the Christmas period which acts as the main narrative arc on which all the other subplots hang. Back at the office, we learn that Robertson and the rest of team (Who are also, racist, homophobic, addicts, stupid, or a mixture of everything) are vying for the promotion to Detective Inspector, for which Robertson will stop at nothing to screw over his colleagues and gain the promotion that he believes is rightfully his. We also see him perform nasty minds games on the meek, unsuspecting freemason Clifford Blades. All the while Robertson’s wife Carol (Shauna Macdonald) is presented as a strange Madonna/whore mannequin giving monologues from the side-lines about the virility of her husband and their relationship.
But it soon becomes very clear that all is not what it seems and the full on hedonistic, take-no-prisoners bad behaviour masks something darker and more psychotic. And as the festive period gets into full swing, and as the web of lies, deceit and self-abuse takes its toll, Robertson’s grip on reality falls apart as loses himself in a spiral of mental and physical destruction as squalid as anything you’re likely to see on film.

Filth was in development for a long time, as it was well known that there were some misgivings about adapting such a controversial book to film. One issue was of course the source material, which is told in a stream of consciousness style full of difficult to adapt plot devices (Such as a tapeworm inside Robertson that achieves sentience). Then there were misgivings about the casting choice of McAvoy in the lead role. McAvoy is good looking young guy and a fine actor, whereas the book presents Robertson as someone who is fat and approaching middle age. It’s good to report though that McAvoy is far and away the best thing about the film. Putting on weight (i.e. looking like any other schlub in the real world) and sporting a shitty brillo pad beard, he throws himself into the role, playing Robertson with a glee that is not healthy for a normal person. It’s a textbook display of an actor “Chewing the scenery.” One minute displaying a sleazy, lothario charm, the next showing manic, eyeballing deviance. You can actually see his face becoming blotchy and puce as his eyes start resembling blood red pissholes in the snow as the booze and drugs take their toll. And in the acting stakes he is ably supported by strong performances from Marsan and Shirley Henderson, as Clifford Banes highly strung wife Bunty.
The film direction itself also displays a sense of anarchic, almost reckless nerve that goes for that molly slammin’, EDM-overload to the senses that actually manages to ape the narrative style of the book. The proceedings in the final third of the movie take on a fantasy based, grand guignol approach to the storyline, when reality really becomes unstuck for Robertson and he starts to experience powerful hallucinations and fantasies.

Of course it is inevitable that there will be comparisons made between Filth and that other Irvine Welsh film adaptation Trainspotting, and there are several shared stylistic and moral aspects between the two films. Underneath the whole Cool Britannia/Britpop/Gritty transgression-as cool lifestyle choice surface, the moral world of Trainspotting is one of neoliberal self-determinism, where those who are strong and cool enough, and willing to screw over everyone will survive and thrive, while those who show humanity and a need for emotion are weak and have no real place in society. And this is also true of Filth. Throughout the film we are told that “life is cruel,” and that you should “trust no one,” while those who show morality or “weakness,” are mocked and abused. Meanwhile Robertson at the beginning displays his own form of self-reliant “God of his own universe” aura. He is he master of his destiny and no one can play “The Games” like he can. Both films also display a similar narcotic energy to the cinematography that resembles a hyperreal pop video accompanied by a bombastic, booming soundtrack (Iggy Pop and Underworld for Trainspotting, Clint Mansell and upbeat northern soul for Filth). They even share similar opening scenes, complete with setting-the-scene monologues.
Which bring us to a major pitfall with Filth. Once you see past the initial pizzazz, wow and woo of the film, you can see in numerous places that the director has blatantly swiped looks, styles, and scenes from other directors and films. You’ve got a beating/murder in a subway tunnel that’s been seen in numerous films from A Clockwork Orange to Romper Stomper, slow-mo walk scenes straight out of Reservoir Dogs, surreal fantasy moments that look like outtakes from a Terry Gilliam movie, or musical interlude sections that could have come from a Dennis Potter screenplay.

And then there’s the biggest problem with Filth in that, tone wise, it wants to have its cake and eat it, displaying as much self-deception in its abilities as its lead character. While it wants to be seen as a dark tale of a man’s descent into darkness that pushes the visual and stylistic envelope, it also wants to come across as a slightly bawdy, knockabout black comedy, and in this respect Filth for me fell flat. It’s hard for any black comedy to get the mix of laughs/shocks right, but in Filth, much of the humour that it tries to generate is of a bro-dude, lad’s mag style, all laughing at bums, tits and willies that may raise a wry chuckle but very quickly runs out of steam. Also the tone is so relentless in its desire to shock and make everyone so unlikeable, that when they try to introduce the prospect of some form of redemption for Robertson (In the form of a widow of a man he uncharacteristically tries to save), it just feels as if it was bolted on afterwards in a half-hearted attempted to make him seem more likable.
Filth overall is a decent film with some genuinely unsettling moments, and serves a great platform to showcasing the breadth of McAvoy’s acting talent. But at its heart, like the state of pop culture mentioned at the beginning of this review, it’s a rather sad, empty film that doesn’t really seek to ask questions beyond our own self obsession and gratification. You find yourself thinking like Tony Montana in Scarface when you he gets everything he wants only to find that it’s not enough, “Is this it? That's what it's all about? Eating, drinking, fucking, sucking? Snorting? Then what?”
- Bob Cluness

Filth is currently screening in Reykjavík's Bíó Paradís. Follow the cinema's goings on facebook, and peep the screening schedule here.

Visit Cluness' blog Reykjavík Sex Farm! for in depth music, film and pop culture analysis. It's a rage banger.

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