Nocturnal: done, occurring, or active at night aka in the dark. Which is the state we find ourselves in for most of this enigmatic thriller by writer/director Tom Ford in his first outing since making his directorial debut in 2009 with A Single Man. But what is cloudy becomes clear as he slowly reveals his winning hand, card by card by patient card, like an expert poker player laying down an unbeatable royal flush.

Though judging by the damning conversation I overheard in the foyer between two women of a mature vintage – “awful”, “the worst film I’ve ever seen” – it would be fair to say that it may not be everyone’s cup of tea. I don’t doubt their honesty, but what I do doubt is their capacity to engage with a film in anything but at surface level. For there are more layers in Ford’s script than there will be tiers of bricks in Donald Trump’s much-trumpeted “beautiful wall”.

Susan Morrow (Amy Adams) has it all: a handsome husband (Armie Hammer), a beautiful home in leafy L.A. and a lucrative career as an art gallery owner. But as the saying goes, all that glitters is not gold. Her hippy friend Alessia (Andrea Riseborough) has a better relationship with her gay husband Carlos (Michael Sheen) than she does with her chisel-chinned adonis. Her designer home, made for show but not for living in, is insulated from reality by a walled garden and security gates. And her job gives her as much fulfilment as flossing.

“We get into things when we’re really young and we think they mean something,” she confides to a friend at a chic dinner party. “Then we find out they don’t.” Without meaning in her life, she soldiers on in the same joyless state as she has done for the last two decades since separating from her first husband Edward Sheffield (Jake Gyllenhaal) whom she traded in for a newer model because she didn’t have faith in him as a writer, panicked and wanted long-term security. Having found that, and having found that that hasn’t made her happy, why does she soldier on in the same way? Not for love, not for money, but because she is “driven”.

Her priorities change however when she receives a manuscript for a novel from and by Edward, which is solely dedicated to her: Nocturnal Animals, his nickname for his insomniac ex-wife. The gist of which, on first reading, bears no relation to their marriage or subsequent lives apart: Texan Tony Hastings (again played by Gyllenhaal) loses his wife Laura (Isla Fisher) and daughter India (Ellie Bamber) after a group of young rednecks run them off the road, beat them up and rape them, before leaving them for dead in the middle of the desert.

Switching between the worlds of fiction and reality, as well as jumping back in time to show how Susan and Edward first met and why they separated, his motivation for writing the novel, sending and dedicating it to Susan, as well as how it relates to their lives, slowly becomes clear. To say more would rob the film of its suspense and deprive you of enjoying its enigmatic mystery, but let’s just say that a work of art hanging in her gallery, which comprises of a bold rearrangement of the letters R E V E N G and E will give you a clue.

Everything about this film says perfection. From the impeccably framed cinematography of Seamus McGarvey and the meticulously scored compositions of Abel Korzeniowski to the razor-sharp script and direction by Tom Ford and exquisite performances from every member of the cast. Amy Adams and Jake Gyllenhaal will no doubt be singled out for praise, and quite rightfully so because both are immense. But the person who stands out for me is Michael Shannon as Detective Bobby Andes. With his squinting eyes, tight lips and deep Texan drawl, his slow-burning performance is a masterclass in subtlety.

As for the withering criticism by the two women of mature vintage (“awful”, “the worst film I’ve ever seen”), I can only presume that they were drawn to see Nocturnal Animals in the mistaken belief that it was a big screen spin-off of the nature series Badger Watch for my assessment is the polar opposite. The only qualification being that it’s not the best film I’ve ever seen, but certainly one of the best so far this year.

As is the striking opening sequence which features a bevy of (how shall I put it?) large-boned ladies of a similarly mature vintage to my fellow cinema-goers who naked but for a feather cap, golden epaulettes and white knee-length boots, twirl their batons and shake their pompoms to the beat of a big brass band. For a film about surface and what lies beneath, it lances the boil of the skin-deep notion of female beauty, which permeates so much of our media. Controversial? Perhaps. But as the acne-ridden teenager said to his $100 an hour dermatologist: spot on!

Video courtesy of: Universal Pictures UK

[imdb id=tt4550098]

Peter Callaghan
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