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A bizarre and compelling story of family secrets based on the novel by Ian McEwan (who also wrote the novel upon which
The Comfort of Strangers is based), this British film tells the complex tale of four children who conspire to hide their dead mother's body to avoid being split apart and sent to an orphanage. Their deception works for a while, as they become a self-sufficient family unit. Soon, however, mistrust and a deeply antagonistic relationship between the older siblings rife with sexual overtones, as well as a snooping suitor with designs on the older sister, threaten to destroy their well-constructed facade. Adapted and directed by Andrew Birkin, this offbeat film is disturbing but a riveting find for anyone interested in new discoveries from the world of international film.
--Robert Lane
From The New Yorker
It wouldn't be surprising if the British Tourist Board tried to ban this movie; no one who sees it could ever want to go there again. The location scouts did their job all too well and found the most horrible house in England, a concrete cube in a rusty, sweltering wasteland. Inside, things aren't much better: the miserable teen-age Jack (Andrew Robertson) occasionally takes time off from masturbation to look after his ailing mother (Sinead Cusack). When she dies, he and his sister (Charlotte Gainsbourg) cover her in concrete and stash her in the cellar. Still to come: cross-dressing, poor personal hygiene, and a fistful of incest. Ian McEwan has adapted his own novel-still his most vicious and compact-and hardly changed a word, but the spirit has gone out of it. The director, Andrew Birkin, gives no energy to the dereliction, no kick of horror; the movie is drab and deadly from the first scene, and you can't have much reason to carry on watching. Birkin once made a haunting TV series, "The Lost Boys," about J. M. Barrie and the real children behind "Peter Pan"; this is stronger meat by any standards, but somehow less potent in its fantasies of youth. It's solemn, controlled, and oddly unshocking; the one big surprise is Gainsbourg's flawless British accent. Any chance of a remake by Paul Bartel? -Anthony Lane
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker