In Fabric

I see there's no thread about this on the site as yet: kindly allow me, therefore, to rectify this by copying and pasting in the one i posted on my own Facebook page some months ago. And then ducking as I'm pelted with wooden objects amidst cries of "burn the heretic" ...

Anyway, here it be.... enjoy.

Well, fuck me, that didn't half go on a long time. Almost 120 minutes to be precise. All I can say is, thank God I didn't pay to watch it, having obtained it from a kindly friend's Dropbox account instead...

Look, I really really wanted to like this, especially after the praise heaped upon it by two esteemed colleagues- and OK, it's DEFINITELY far better than the incredibly overrated, meandering mess that was BERBERIAN SOUND STUDIOS. For a start, at least this has some kind of a plot. Well, it sort of does to begin with- in fact it starts off very well indeed, with an incredibly sympathetic, likable central character (Marianne Jean-Baptiste) some great set designs (the first hour is set in the '70s) and more than a fair dash of dry humour. Come to think of it, those initial 60 minutes would make a great standalone play, if British terrestrial channels still did that sort of thing now. However, it all too quickly ends up going nowhere- and by the time we get halfway through the second of its two stories, you find yourself just waiting (maybe even praying) for the damned thing to end.

Not only that but when it finally does, you're still no clearer on what it all means than you were 50 minutes ago, director Peter Strickland once more bowing out with another series of bewilderingly ambiguous images that seem to have been deliberately designed for the benefit of the massed hipsterati of Hackney, Moseley, Chorlton, Kelvingrove, Hanover and Stokes Croft. And, by the same token, utter disregard for anyone else. Actually, they happen at irregular intervals during several earlier sequences too- but irrespective of their chronology, the ultimate result is still too vague. In short, this is the kind of picture where (much like BBS before it) everyone PRETENDS to understand what's going on, sagely nodding and going "ah" in order to remain in the clique, when in truth they know just about as much as I do. Which is bugger all.

The fact that the end titles give full production credit to another similarly unfathomable bete noire of nu-Brit cinema, Ben Wheatley, is a further indicator of what kind of movie we're dealing with- and moreover, how little substance there truly is under that glittering top layer. Of course, if you dare to ask the advocates of this strand of filmmaking to explain it, their usual response is to say "what, you mean you don't know?" and make you look like a right prat- but trust me, that butters NO parsnips with me duckie, and indeed, I'm more than happy to call their bluff RIGHT HERE and challenge them to explain to me (in a PM, of course- we wouldn't want to give away "spoilers") just what in the name of Greek buggery that ending was all about. Go on, I dare you. Because seriously, I think either I'm missing something so obtuse I'm not meant to see it, or someone snuck in in the night at some point during the last decade (presumably when I was living in the cultural wasteland of Aylesbury) and removed my "faux-art virtue signaller" chip. Not that I ever knew where it was to begin with.

Look, I may live in Dudley now, but I'm not thick, nor am I the kind of Luddite that spouts platitudes like "I may not know nowt about art, but I know what I bloody well like" : in fact, I have an IQ of 161 and number several "non-linear" works, O LUCKY MAN! and THE LICKERISH QUARTET being the most obvious examples, among my favourites. I've also been watching and collecting horror since 1982 and reviewing it since 2002, which is why I CAN see from a historical point of view (if nothing else) what Strickland's trying to do here. Basically, in much the same way that BERBERIAN referenced giallo tropes, he's this time collected a series of images and atmospheres from his favourite Britcult TV shows such as TALES OF THE UNEXPECTED, THRILLER, ARMCHAIR THRILLER and, proving just how "meta" and "post" everything's become in the 20 years since its first broadcast, THE LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN : he's also added a soupcon of the Amicus portmanteau (although featuring as it does only a brace of stories, a more obvious comparison is the early 90s Argento/Romero collaboration TWO EVIL EYES) and even sprinkled on some touching homages to well-regarded (albeit non-horror) "multiple owner" films like THE GUN and THE YELLOW ROLLS ROYCE. However, at the end of the day, that's all IN FABRIC ever really is- a procession of homages, with unfortunate delusions of grandeur. And try as it might (too hard, in my estimation) it never becomes more than the sum of those parts.

Sure, it LOOKS beautiful, particularly the 70s TV ad shots (shades of Harry Enfield's "Deptford Draylons" parody) and the mannequins that recall "those" episodes of KOLCHAK and JOURNEY TO THE UNKNOWN (you know the ones) It sounds good, both in terms of music and audio SFX. It has two or three decent jump-scares. And once you get past the mannered speech of the shop owners and the references to "sleeping dreams" (i mean come on, who the fuck talks like that? They're DREAMS!!) there are several other passages of dialogue- particularly the exchanges between Jean-Baptiste, her grumpy late-teen son and his 'femme fatale' older girlfriend, or her ludicrous reprimands from obsequious employers Julian Barratt and Steve Oram- which are well-written and beautifully delivered. Also, the woman-on-woman punch-up at the end is quite hilariously timed as deliberate slapstick, much like Mrs Doyle and her best mate's infamous brawl in FATHER TED: put together, these disparate elements almost make it look (despite the second story's annoyingly unsympathetic, dull-as-ditchwater central characters) as if the film COULD stand up to repeat viewings. Yet overall, it still fails to hang together as anything cohesive- and as the end credits roll, you get the impression that once again, all Strickland really wants to do is impress us with his cleverness until we openly acknowledge it. Which sadly, many other writers- including at least three I usually credit with sound taste- have lately fallen over themselves to do. But not me.

He even, just to be REALLY smug, sets the story in a fictitious town called "Thames Valley On Thames" : such blatantly on-the-nose, cringeworthy wordsmithery calls to mind a narrative fiction assignment (or a "story", as proper English would have it) I once wrote for my Humanities BA, which not only featured a series of characters named after prematurely dead jazz musicians like "Blanton" "Christian" and "Twardzik" et al, but was also partially set in a pub with the cleverly punning title of "The Lagerhasno Head" Eat your heart out Flann O'Brien!! The difference is I was 24 when I wrote that, and I eventually grew up: unfortunately, Strickland is now 46 (ie a year older than me) and evidently still hasn't. And at least mine had an ending (it had to, really, otherwise I couldn't have handed it in) As for the characters of the "sinister" shopkeepers, they're so absurdly contrived and caricature-like as to be beyond belief- and on a purely practical level, just what the bollocking goats' nadgers is Magazine bassist/trip-hop guru Barry Adamson doing in there appearing as Jean-Baptiste's love interest? Although ironically, his few brief scenes are also among some of the most enjoyable ones.

The tragedy is, Strickland obviously CAN direct in an interesting, creative way- the "sperm" sequence is admittedly hilarious- and somewhere in him, a truly great British horror film lurketheth-eth-eth. But sadly, IN FABRIC (incomprehensible, more like) just isn't it. In final summation, I give it 6 and a half out of ten for effort, and like I said, it's an undoubted improvement on the BS that was BSS (I still haven't seen THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY in case you wondered) But without repeating myself too much, I still believe our man from Reading could do (and hopefully one day WILL do) a whole lot better. Who knows, he may even achieve this by filming someone else's script, like his pal Wheatley did with SIGHTSEERS (still his best effort thus far, and I'm not just saying that because it's set and filmed in the Midlands) Not, of course, that anybody ever listens to me about these things, especially when the stamped and approved cognoscenti (whoever they do verily be this month) are happily cruising in on the backhander gravy train. Nonetheless, I know I'm right: in essence, the only "fabrics" I can really see here are the emperor's new clothes (yet again) In the words of the late great Jacques Brel, Scott Walker AND Alex Harvey, "next..."

(Back to me posting this now) OK, go on then, kill me...