James McAvoy is Bruce Robertson, an amoral, racist, sexist, sociopathic policeman in line for promotion and enlisted to solve a brutal murder.
From the get go, Filth was always going to suffer from comparisons with Trainspotting, the definitive Irvine Welsh screen adaptation, and credit to writer-director Jon S Baird; he’s delivered a delightfully weird and hallucinogenic film that comes fairly close to living up to hopes. Possessed with more than its share of visual invention and dark humour, Filth revels in its seedy subject matter, painting a picture of group of flawed, broken people.
However, it suffers from being tonally uneven and it fails to deliver the proper emotion where it counts. The mismatch of out and out zany humour with the darker threads ends up robbing the latter much of its impact. A barely hinted at subplot regarding Robertson’s absent family isn’t given the attention it deserves, robbing a late plot twist of its true emotional value.
Which isn’t to say the film is a failure. Far from it in fact. The film shines in its more out and out bonkers elements, taking darkly comic delight in the transgressions and ineptitude of its central troop. A good script gives the strong cast plenty to chew on, with Eddie Marson standing out as the abused best mate.
McAvoy, however, is the linchpin of the whole affair. He invests Bruce, a bit of a prat, with plenty of charm. He swims in a sea of alcohol and coke abuse, deviant sex and mental illness. It’s a tough role, and it’s impressive that McAvoy manages to humanise him.
Not quite an era-defining classic then, but thanks to a career best performance from McAvoy, it’s no write off either.
4/5