Filth or How Poor Sound Design can Ruin a Perfectly Good Asphyxiaphilia Scene

It should be clear now that the twisted tapeworm fuelling Irvine Welsh’s creativity is a tumultuous beast to adapt. After the success of Trainspotting subsequent adaptations like The Acid House and Ecstasy have failed to meet their predecessor’s standard. Not to mention Trainspotting follow-up Porno still languishing in development hell. Filth however hopes to be the one to break this slump using the considerable star power of its lead James McAvoy.

To his credit McAvoy’s performance is the razor-sharp centrepiece from which the rest of the film hangs. His sullen, bloodshot eyes alone are enough to tell you the distain, the decadence and demented mind-set of Detective Sergeant Bruce Robinson. A man hell-bent on rising through the ranks of the police if only to cheat, bully and humiliate his colleges out of the running. Yet through it all you never feel the urge to abandon Bruce, partially due to the tragic loneliness that results from his antics but more partially due to said antics being so entertaining to watch.

This however transpires to be both a blessing and curse. Make no mistake; McAvoy sells the hell out of Bruce’s more vulnerable moments. But these moments only show how Filth is taking great pains to make its leading man sympathetic, saddling him with childhood traumas and misplaced wives and children. When the sad fact is no amount of personal tragedy can truly make us empathise with such a monster. The result is that while we stay with Bruce his genuine moments of despair fail to hit home and only undermine our vicarious enjoyment in his antics. Filth wavers between pitch-black humour and dramatic descent into madness but never commits to either, a crisis of identity which proves to be the films biggest weakness.

Quite possibly this indecision is what has led to the films other great failing; immersion. It’s hard to describe how poor sound design can ruin a perfectly good asphyxiaphilia scene, something to do with the straining of the rope probably, but it keeps you out of the room. Just as bad editing can kill a funny line or poor lighting can suck the tension out of a bad drugs trip. In Trainspotting (and how long could we really go before drawing comparisons?) Danny Boyle made you feel like dirt was being forcibly injected into your veins. All Filth can manage is a dull feeling of intoxication.
In the end Filth is proof that the little things can make all the difference. Not a bad film by any estimation but one that keeps the experience at arm’s length. There’s a feeling that the humour could land stronger, the violence feel more immediate, that we could be truly swept up into Bruce’s insanity. Instead we can only see it, the fourth wall an impenetrable pane of glass, keeping us from the possibility of a greater film than this.
Liam Macleod