Starve Acre hits three essential criteria of British folk horror right off the bat: a rustic landscape, an isolated setting, and a mythological presence all factor into its unnerving opening. Enhanced by blustery windsong, the lively glockenspiel of Matthew Herbert’s instrumental score, and wintry footage of the Yorkshire moors, this disquieting amuse-bouche sets up a haunting drama that conjures the spirits of both its ’70s period setting and earlier, darker age of U.K. history. With their delicate performances, Matt Smith and Morfydd Clark’s buttress Starve Acre in their roles as bereaved parents whose separate journeys of grief teeter towards a climactic pagan summoning.
The plot and subject matter of the Andrew Michael Hurley book that inspired Starve Acre nod to both Daphne du Maurier’s short story Don’t Look Now and David Pinner’s novel Ritual. Those literary works and their ’70s film adaptations (the latter of which picked up the title The Wicker Man on its way to the screen) are an unmistakable influence on this version of Starve Acre as well. Adam Scarth’s grainy cinematography and muted color palette transport us back to that particular era of filmmaking, as does the granular detail in the makeup, costumes, and production design. Director Daniel Kokotajlo places us in a richly realized corner of this place and time, a remote world of hippie haircuts, After Eight Mints, geometric-patterned sweaters, floral wallpaper, and introductory books on yoga. You’ll find no outsiders in conflict with isolated fanatics here, though: Kokotajlo keeps the raving true believers at bay in favor of grounded direction for his leads and their dubious neighbors (Sean Gilder is sedately suspicious as no-frills farmer Gordon), amplifying the dread through earthly visuals instead.
Richard (Smith) is a Yorkshire-born archaeology professor and Juliette (Clark) is a Londoner and housewife. Both are devoted parents to Owen (Arthur Shaw), a shy, sickly boy who suffers from what seems to be anxiety-inducing asthma. It’s a cliched setup with an inevitable conclusion, and also the reason for the family’s move from the city to the farm once owned by Richard’s late, abusive father. The couple hopes their son will benefit from the country air – Juliette more enthusiastically than Richard – but the eponymous property isn’t good for anyone’s health. An ominous presence is keenly felt through a camera whose obstructed views suggest the family is being tracked by someone (or something) that doesn’t want to be seen. Cutaways of nature and its elements in extreme focus intensify the dark mysticism lurking around the nooks and crannies of the farm where most of the action takes place. Sharp editing adds to the tension, in a few living-room scenes especially: one involving the harsh white noise of an old television set, another a meditation that turns into a disturbing seance.
Smith is a natural folk horror lead, whose restraint is well-measured not just in the Yorkshire lilt he gives Richard but in the nervous tics of pill-popping and nail-biting that emerge as he unearths the familial trauma and pagan idolatry connected to his son’s death. There’s also a furrowing of his brow at key points of discovery that makes Richard’s mental state nerve-rackingly elusive.
Having risen to prominence as the tortured caregiver of Saint Maud, Clark is no stranger to playing the subtleties of religious zealotry. She brings a depth and patience to the motherly guilt that causes Juliette to unravel in her grief. Unlike Richard, who has a job and a backstory to strengthen his characterisation, Juliette has little to bolster her personality or motivation beyond being a two-dimensional maternal fixture – she’s confined to domestic spaces for most of Starve Acre.
Clark’s performance adds layers the script lacks, but she and Kokotajlo are a match made in heaven: His 2017 debut Apostasy dealt with extreme godly beliefs just like Saint Maud. But where Apostasy lingers in the uncomfortable tension of a Jehovah’s Witness’s slow disillusionment with restrictive doctrine, Starve Acre luxuriates in the heightened atmosphere brought forth from its source material and reinforced with rousing folk horror imagery. It’s an adequate addition to the British subgenre of cinema, offering both a morbid illustration of loss and the way in which ancient mythology, fables, and human kinship with nature are kept alive through blood, ink, or both.
