Censor
Cert: 15 / 84 mins / Dir. Prano Bailey-Bond / Trailer
Not every anticipated release gets to shine on the big screen (especially in the current maelstrom of UK distribution), but then some movies seem purposely designed to be watched at home...
As a slightly uptight London film examiner for the BBFC at the height of the early 1980s video nasty scare, Enid (Naimh Algar) is shaken by a piece which should be run of the gory-mill but instead seems to raise suppressed memories of the unsolved disappearance of her sister Nina when they were both children. Is there a chance that Nina is still alive? And what will it mean for her world if that's the case?
PLAYERS
What's immediately pleasing about director and co-writer Prano Bailey-Bond's Censor is that it's a feature debut, and what a great way to start. Not only does she have an understatedly brilliant players in Algar, Nicholas Burns, Vincent Franklin, Clare Holman, Felicity Montagu and Michael Smiley, but they're directed with the focus of a veteran. The commitment of the cast is a key factor of course, with the only over-playing being reserved for the roles where that's intentional.
Annika Summerson's cinematography is quietly assured in setting mood and tone while keeping even the darkest scenes visible (where they're supposed to be)*1, and the use of sets masquerading as outdoor locations adds to the claustrophobia and sense of shifted reality. Meanwhile, Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch's haunting score is the perfect companion piece in its own right to the visuals. The script, co-penned with Anthony Fletcher, feels a little on-the-nose in places; never unforgivably so, but this seems to be a casualty of the brisk pacing. That said, it also leads to some fantastic moments of show-don't-tell where lesser filmmakers would have shoehorned in a paragraph of exposition instead.
WOODBINES
Thematically, Bailey-Bond is on intriguing ground. Dealing with guilt and trauma head-on, there's a deeper exploration of psychological regression which only begins to be uncovered. And an interesting use of aspect-ratio helps reality break down through layers in several places which would, despite my opening gambit above, work at maximum effect on a cinema screen.
Although it's tempting to compare the film to Saint Maud, this is probably closer in tone to a British version of Mandy. High praise, either way.
The lean 84 minute run-time seems perfectly in keeping with the protagonist's linear descent into psychosis, although with those two aspects combined this often feels like a film playing with ideas rather than presenting them as fully formed. It's either the perfect length or needs to be an hour longer, nothing between.
Censor's dream-like unravelling invites further viewings, while resolutely refusing to promise clearer conclusions. But isn't that what the rewind button is for..?
*1 And fair play to Prano Bailey-Bond and the costume and make-up departments in at least attempting to pull off their greatest noble failure: trying to make Naimh Algar look Dowdy™. This is the UK equivalent of putting glasses on Kat Dennings. No one's buying it mate, but points for the effort. [ BACK ]
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• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
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A few words then, on Nick Rowland's impressive feature debut, Calm With Horses. Adapted for the screen by his regular collaborator Joe Murtagh from Colin Barrett's short story of the same name, it's a tale set in present-day rural Ireland, as drug dealer Dymphna Devers (Barry Keoghan) rises through the ranks of his appalling criminal family with the aid of his enforcer and ex-boxer, Arm (Cosmo Jarvis). Arm has drifted into this life through a series of poor choices rather than malice, and struggles to reconcile his 'duties' under Dymphna with the person he'd rather be. Keeping a watchful, if disapproving, eye over this is Arm's ex-partner Ursula (Niamh Algar), struggling to raise their son Jack. When Ursula raises the prospect of her moving to Cork with Jack, things come to a head, not least because the Devers clan want to claim Arm as one of their own...
