In Fabric (2019) Review

In Fabric is utterly preposterous. Watching this film twisted and bent my mind into the shape of a wig wag solenoid. Hypnotised by its absurdity, I was left slack jawed, ambling through the streets surrounding the theatre post-screening with no idea of how to form a cogent sentence that might adequately describe what had just happened. Director Peter Strickland takes whimsy and kicks it into the foreboding, freakish long grass of the lawn of absurdist European cinema’s house of mirrors.

A wickedly tongue in cheek, aggrandised comment on the vacuity of a society gripped with retail fever. The monotony of production, the cold, clammy hands of the store staff beckoning you to purchase their wares and the near (or in the case of this film, actual) violent fervour that is stirred up deep in the soul of shoppers in pursuit of a deal are all covered.

Like a molotov cocktail garnished with a cherry redder than the beautifully made, demonic dress this film revolves around things explode with a peculiar eroticism and giallo-fueled sinister whimsy. The commitment made to the ridiculousness of it all is what saves it from becoming a ludicrous parody of itself. Although it is entirely intended to be a ludicrous parody of itself, probably, I think.

What I do know is that this is most definitely, as one the the laddish real men out on a stag night in the films second half might attest in a slurred lexicon of Talksport cliche and booze, a game of two halves. We see excellent performances from Marianne Jean-Baptiste as Sheila, a divorced 40 something ambling through the mundanity of life and reality of single parenthood with a disaffected and underappreciating teenage son. Played with a homeliness and warmth that makes her instantly likable she becomes a sympathetic figure, easy to route for due to her being simultaneously world weary and latently optimistic. She’s ably abetted by Gwendoline Christie as Gwen, a deliciously cruel, sexual and condescending cougar who is dating Sheila’s son. Christie is tremendous whenever she’s on screen and her interactions with Jean-Baptiste crackle with a domestic tension that momentarily turn this preposterous trip into a serious domestic drama played out via minimal dialogue over a simple board game.

The colour palette throughout is exquisite. Rich browns and caramels that act as a simple, earthy backdrop to offset the blood red killer garment and the fever-pitch splash of colour soundtrack that screeches and screams and shimmers on a frequency not quite of this mortal coil. The retail space is clinical and bare, gleaming with the kind of anodyne freshness you can almost smell through the screen. A blank canvas upon which the stores delightfully weird staff glide and skitter giving them a foreboding sense of omnipresence whenever we’re taken into the store.

Leo Bill turns in a memorable performance as a completely unremarkable and unmemorable washing machine repair man. However, the portions of the film that feature him and his penchant for trance-like-state inducing monologues about washing machine repair manage to lose the intrigue that Sheila’s scenes engender. Momentum might be lost but the overwhelming sense of intrigue in the maniacal wildness of the whole thing is maintained with the final scenes encapsulating the film perfectly, as something that stirs laughter is juxtaposed by something thoroughly horrifying and uncomfortable. Maybe we’ve lost interest in the people involved by then but one thing that never diminishes is the potency of the vision of Peter Strickland, a man who makes films that are wonderfully unique. Another cocktail please, Peter.