It doesn’t always take absolute power to corrupt absolutely. Enjoying but a modicum of authority as a middle rung Edinburgh cop, Bruce Robinson (James McAvoy) has abused it at every turn, devolving into a debauched monster whose
deplorable actions are governed by his vices and worldview warped by myriad prejudices. And yet, he finds himself up for a promotion, with a vitriolic voiceover detailing how little regard he has for his competitors based on their respective gender (Imogen Poots) and undersized genitals (Jamie Bell). When not tormenting both cops and criminals, the bipolar sergeant abandons a murder investigation in order to embark on a hedonistic German holiday with the well-heeled mark (Eddie Marsen) he’s treating as a private ATM. Alas, it seems that all the sex, drugs and... well, more sex and drugs still can’t keep his hallucinations at bay.
Spawned from the notorious Irvine Welsh novel that was published in the wake of Danny Boyle’s big screen adaptation of Trainspotting, Filth practically feels like a relic from another era, with its excessive brashness and aggressive stylization both seeming quaint. And while Boyle used his 1996 film to fulfil the promise he displayed with his auspicious debut (Shallow Grave), Jon S. Baird’s sophomore feature reveals a directorial hand that’s quaking with nervous energy rather than commanding, thus depriving him of the necessary assurance to orchestrate the tonal shifts the material demands.
Just as Baird’s music choices are as subtle as a Glasgow kiss (a “Creep” cover is hardly clever), his storytelling is fuelled by an eagerness to offend and facilitated by blunt force tactics. Ultimately, the only thing Filth inspires is shock fatigue.
