Filth

Let’s cut straight to the chase: if you had a hard time enjoying Trainspotting, you’ll most likely be repulsed by Filth. The comedy is blacker than soot, colourful profanities are frequently spouted, copious amounts of drugs voraciously consumed and for those located south of Hadrian’s Wall, the Scottish accents are as thick as they come. If, however, you’ve been bemoaning the lack of decent Irvine Welsh adaptations ever since Renton walked off into the sunset to the sound of Born Slippy, then you are in for a guilty treat.

That’s not to say Filth is Trainspotting 2.0. Both films may display a brutal brand of humour rooted in Britain’s working class, but the two are radically different in terms of theme. While Danny Boyle’s masterpiece was a portrayal of 90s disenfranchised youth, Jon S. Baird’s impressive sophomore effort is a perverse character study chronicling one man’s spectacular descent into hell. It’s a warped ride, with its ups and downs and the occasional sharp turn that takes you by surprise.

Accompanying us on this journey is DS Bruce Robertson, one of the most irredeemably amoral characters ever to be conceived either on page or on screen. Ostensibly a sociopath with a police badge, Bruce shags, snorts and schemes his way through Edinburgh, all while he foolishly believes an imminent job promotion will reunite him with his estranged wife and daughter. When asked by his pitiful “best friend” Clifford Blades what made him want to join the Force, Robertson says it was police oppression. “Oh, so you wanted to stamp it out from the inside?” asks Bladesey. “No, I wanted to be a part of it”, comes the straight-faced reply. He’s not a protagonist you can empathise with, but you certainly won’t be able to take your eyes off him.

As is the case with most adaptations, not all of Filth’s source material makes its way to the big screen, but to Baird’s credit what he sacrificed from the book was due to the material’s incompatibility on film. The biggest omission is the tapeworm that grows inside Bruce’s intestines (sounds lovely, doesn’t it?), which in the book appears literally on top of the text, highjacks the narrative and effectively becomes Robertson’s conscience. In the film the invertebrate character is replaced by Jim Braodbent’s manic shrink Dr Rossi and while the substitution makes sense somewhat, it would’ve been tempting to see Bruce be psychoanalysed by a literate giant worm.

Having said that, Baird jumps at the opportunity to throw in some elements that couldn’t be reproduced as effectively on paper. Hysterical fantasy sequences pop up in the earlier stages of the film, while Bruce has sudden, grotesque visions of people turning into pigs, as his mental state gradually deteriorates. Even the shocking twist packs a real punch thanks to the ingenious use of flashbacks and psychedelic visuals.

At the centre of this whirlwind of squalor and depravity is James McAvoy, turning in another brilliant performance in the same year he impressed in Danny Boyle’s Trance. Hell, it’s quite possibly his best role to date. On one hand this is because the diabolical “Robbo” is the polar opposite of Robbie, the naïve romantic gardener from Atonement, but that’s too easy a comparison. No, where McAvoy truly stands out is in those rare, brief moments where a twinkle of humanity shines through Bruce Robertson, the ones that seem to suggest that, deep beneath the filth, there might just be a decent human being down there. It’s a tough act to pull off, but the Scottish actor does a sterling job.

All in all, Filth is a glorious adaptation that triumphantly recaptures the book’s anarchic spirit and that shocks, scares and entertains in equal measure. Catch it before it gets banned from your local cinema.

4/5