Indecipherable exegesis, anyone? From the relative safety of a highrise bathed in the apocalyptic glow of the burnt-orange evening sun, Harper (Jessie Buckley) watches in horror as her husband plummets past the living room window to the ground below. With no explanation, a cut whisks us to the English countryside with Harper behind the wheel en route to the stately 500-year-old castle that will act as her vacation home for the next two weeks. In a turn worthy of Peter Sellers, Rory Kinnear assumes numerous CG identities, the first and most engaging of which is the persnickety, mumbo-jumbo spewing property owner that gives Harper a walk-through. For the first 30 minutes my eyes were glued to the screen. Pitchers would give their right arm for a lead like this, so how did writer-director Alex Garland blow such a substantial head start? A performance by a lead actress composed almost entirely in reaction shots, an emphasis on symbolism that would baffle Ingmar Bergman, and a deck stacked with heavy-handed toxic masculinity. Psychological horror wasn’t enough for Garland. All hope was lost when the monstrous Edward Penishands effects kicked in. What a shame it was watching Rob Hardy’s cinematography and Mark Digby’s production design put to waste. (2022) — Scott Marks
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