Enys Men
Undeniably eerie and packed with symbolism, the ghosts of Enys Men's cut-off setting will keep the audience keenly watching, in a film with few material exchanges between unnamed characters
Enys Men follows an unnamed woman on a remote island, whose activities are haunted by the setting’s tragic mythology. Her daily duties – recording flowers, dropping stones down an empty mineshaft – go unexplained, preluding a descent through vignettes of abstract horror.
Primordial landscapes come alive with cinematography, and filming in 16mm makes Enys Men feel like an authentic early 70s artefact – washed out, achingly nostalgic, but still tactile, still operational. Red windbreakers and a red generator bleed through the mise-en-scene, highlighting objects necessary for survival. The protagonist covets blue things, like painted driftwood, tea for her blue tea set, or the attention of a young, blue-clad girl – possibly her offspring, possibly a ghost of her earlier self.
More echoes of the past appear. Children sing for an ancient May Day rite. A druidic monolith stands beyond the gate. Scenes are told out of order. A stranger arrives on a boat we know to have sunk. A piece of its wreckage hangs over the fire as he drinks tea. He is one of the few characters with dialogue. Other phantoms, like miners, or a minister, watch from afar, sometimes solemn, sometimes grinning in delight.
The plot is cryptic, and characterisation hides between the lines, but femininity, nature and isolation are depicted as spectral themes in a retro glaze that speaks to recent horror sagas such as Midsommar and The Lighthouse. The aesthetic of early 70s horror is resurrected in this modern director’s expedition into a timeless afterlife.
Released 13 Jan by BFI; certificate 15