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A Farm in England

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Starve Acre

by Hope Madden

Perhaps it’s impossible to create a folk horror film that feels truly fresh. Maybe freshness is at odds with the very idea of folk horror. What director Daniel Kokotajlo, adapting Andrew Michael Hurley’s novel Starve Acre, manages in lieu of freshness is an enigmatic slow burn enlivened by memorable performances.

Richard (Matt Smith), Jules (Morfydd Clark) and their young son Owen (Arthur Shaw) are settling in. They’ve recently moved into Richard’s childhood home out in the bleak and foggy British countryside circa 1970-something. The fresh air will do Owen good, surely. I mean, nothing maleficent ever happens in situations like these. What could go wrong in a place called Starve Acre?

Unless Richard’s late father—and maybe rugged old neighbor Gordon (Sean Gilder, stellar)—dabbled in child abuse and the occult. Or the old tree trunk that Richard obsessively digs around is some kind of gateway. But what are the odds?

So much of Kokotajlo’s film pulls from existing genre fare: unhappy couple, new home with an ugly past, familial tragedy, father numbs himself with work while mother loses grip on reality.

But a handful of intriguing scenes and conversations, as well as an entire ensemble of strong performances, ensures that the creeping storyline captures and keeps your attention.

Little Arthur Shaw is a heartbreaker, so be prepared. Kokotajlo sidesteps overt gruesomeness to leave an impression that’s even more menacing. Gilder’s a solid salt-of-the-earth presence, offset admirably by Erin Richards. As Jules’s sister Harrie, she’s civility-meets-hardiness and her character feels deeply human and relatable.

But it’s Smith and Clark (the latter who was so astonishing in Rose Glass’s 2019 genre masterpiece, Saint Maud) who carry the film. Both deliver characteristically flawed but tender performances, each commanding the screen without an ounce of showiness.

Careful writing, some fine genre direction and misdirection, and these compelling performances help Starve Acre rise above its spooky familiarity. It’s not enough for Kokotajlo to leave you lying awake and hoping for dawn, but you won’t regret watching.

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Saint Maud

by Hope Madden

Never waste your pain.

What a peculiarly Catholic sentiment. Like old school, self-flagellating, “suffering cleanses” kind of Catholic: the agony and the ecstasy. It’s in the eyes of the martyrs. This is how you see God.

This is what Maud wants.

Writer/director Rose Glass knows that Catholicism is one of the most common elements in horror. You see it in the way she shoots down an old staircase in an alley, or up at the high windows of a lovely manor.

There’s been a glut of uninspired, superficial drivel. But there are also great movies: The Devils (1971), The Omen (1976), and the Godfather of them all, The Exorcist (1973). Saint Maud stakes its claim in this unholy ground with a singular vision of loneliness, purpose and martyrdom.

Maud (an astonishing Morfydd Clark) has some undefined blood and shame in her recent past. But she survived it, and she knows God saved her for a reason. She’s still working out what that reason is when she meets Amanda (Jennifer Ehle), a former choreographer now crumbling beneath lymphoma.

Maud cannot save Amanda’s body, but because of just the right signs from Amanda, she is determined to save her soul.

Ehle’s performance strikes a perfect image of casual cruelty, her scenes with the clearly delicate Maud a dance of curiosity and unkindness. Ehle’s onscreen chemistry with Clark suggests the bored, almost regretful thrill of manipulation.

Clark’s searching, desperate performance is chilling. Glass routinely frames her in ways to evoke the images of saints and martyrs, giving the film an eerie beauty, one that haunts rather than comforts. The conversations and pathos are so authentic that suddenly the behavior of one mad obsessive feels less lurid and more tragic.

As a horror film, Saint Maud is a slow burn. Glass and crew repay you for your patience, though, with a smart film that believes in its audience. Her film treads the earth between mental illness and religious fervor, but its sights are on the horror of the broken hearted and lonesome.