Ear­wig

It would be reduc­tive, though not untrue, to say that Lucile Hadži­halilović enjoys dis­turb­ing her audi­ence. Her first two fea­tures, Inno­cence and Evo­lu­tion, are slow-mov­ing (often cru­el­ly so) and plait­ed with enough obscu­ri­ty and body hor­ror to send bile inch­ing up view­ers’ throats. But her aim, as fur­ther evi­denced by Ear­wig, is to dis­ori­ent her audi­ence, not sim­ply fright­en them.

This gen­er­ous adap­ta­tion of Bri­an Catling’s novel­la of the same name sees Aal­bert Scellinc (Paul Hilton), a sto­ic mid­dle-aged man in post­war Europe, car­ing for 10-year-old shut-in Mia (Romane Heme­laers). Their exact rela­tion­ship is unspec­i­fied; he car­ries out tasks for her, the most crit­i­cal and bizarre being tend­ing to her ice den­tures, which need to be changed fre­quent­ly and with caution.

Vials fas­tened to elab­o­rate head­gear col­lect sali­va from Mia’s mouth, which is sub­se­quent­ly poured into a mould of her teeth and sealed inside a freez­er. Once sol­id, Aal­bert gin­ger­ly fix­es the den­tures to her gums, as though manoeu­ver­ing a trip­wire. Mia flash­es a translu­cent smile and their cycle looks set to con­tin­ue. That is, until the stern, name­less ​“mas­ter” that phones inter­mit­tent­ly to inquire about Mia’s teeth, dis­pens­ing instruc­tions on her care and Aalbert’s com­pen­sa­tion, informs him that he must pre­pare her to leave their apart­ment and trav­el elsewhere.

This is famil­iar ter­ri­to­ry for Hadži­halilović, whose work con­sis­tent­ly sur­veys clois­tered chil­dren, their care­tak­ers and the omi­nous high­er-ups who direct them. Unlike her ear­li­er films, how­ev­er, which attend to pread­o­les­cents, Ear­wig is more con­cerned with Mia’s keep­er than Mia her­self. ​“It’s not the sto­ry of the lit­tle girl, but of the 50-year-old Aal­bert Scellinc who looks after her,” says Hadži­halilović in an intro­duc­to­ry mes­sage to the film.

Indeed, it is the epony­mous Aal­bert – nick­named ​“Ear­wig” in the novel­la – who eats away at the run­time. Hilton’s per­for­mance shifts between restrained care­tak­er-cum-wid­ow­er and over­wrought insti­ga­tor with appar­ent ease. Aalbert’s anx­i­eties are under­scored by Ken Yasumo­to and Bruno Schweisguth’s chill­ing sound design, made up of drip­ping sali­va, tin­nitic ring­ing and the vio­lent hum of wine glass rims.

And yet the nov­el­ty of Hadžihalilović’s unortho­dox set-up dwin­dles with every unturned stone. New char­ac­ters crop up (includ­ing a mous­ta­chioed, all-too-brief Alex Lawther), each with coiled moti­va­tions, seek­ing answers to ques­tions nev­er asked. The most visu­al­ly embold­ened sequences – light refract­ing off of crys­tal­ware, spin­ning colour into an oth­er­wise sooty milieu – offer lit­tle nar­ra­tive insight. The film’s last-gasp reveal is superbly realised, but cloud­ed by a desire to cling on to more.

Hadžihalilović’s slow, con­tem­pla­tive style begins to fold into itself, dodg­ing riposte by embrac­ing aloof­ness. Ear­wig con­scious­ly lacks the clar­i­ty we’re taught to ulti­mate­ly expect from mys­ter­ies – but then Hadži­halilović is not in the busi­ness of mak­ing clear-cut who­dunits. In opt­ing to take a less-trod­den path, she cre­ates some­thing sen­su­ous­ly dis­tinct but nar­ra­tive­ly ambiva­lent. A pos­i­tive­ly dis­ori­ent­ing film, if not always for the right reasons.

Ear­wig is released in cin­e­mas 10 June via Anti-Worlds releas­ing.

Lit­tle White Lies is com­mit­ted to cham­pi­oning great movies and the tal­ent­ed peo­ple who make them.

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