Perhaps I’m attuned to the genre, or just a sucker for claustrophobic dramas set in the hauntingly bleak English countryside, but Barnaby Roper’s All the Devils Are Heredeserves a lot more than its lowly 5.5 on IMDb.
To place the film too accurately is to risk giving away too much, but, suffice it to say, it belongs to that rarer tradition of British gangster movies that do more than revel in thuggery. This is closer to The Long Good Friday, Get Carter, or Richard Burton’s excellent Villain than the glamourised world of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels or Layer Cake. It’s a film concerned with the morality of crime as much as the violence; less about snarling hardmen shouting “have it!” than the consequences of living that life.
On the surface, it’s the story of four criminals lying low after a violent robbery, holed up in a remote cottage on orders from their boss. That setup—four disparate characters trapped in one space—is a classic dramatic formula, and we watch as their personalities inevitably clash.
The first is Ronnie, played by the excellent Eddie Marsan, an ageing gangster looking to retire after one last job. He’s joined by Grady (Sam Claflin),a borderline psychopath; Royce (Tienne Simon), a young aspiring crook; and Numbers (Burn Gorman), a heroin-addicted minder tasked with watching them and the money.
It’s a familiar setup, but Roper and screenwriter John Patrick Dover add just enough spin to keep it interesting. One of the most effective touches is in the choice of the soundtrack: Numbers brings with him his prized reel-to-reel tape machine, from which he plays a succession of tracks like Cher’s “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” and Little Anthony and the Imperials’ “Goin’ Out of My Head.” Except these aren’t the versions we know. These are covers…
By Cilla Black.
Yes, that Cilla Black.
It’s a brilliant touch: three men trapped in a crumbling cottage with a Cilla-obsessed junkie. But the music isn’t just a quirk, it sets the tone for the whole film. The cottage becomes increasingly unliveable. The toilet fails before the electricity gives out. They’re living in their own stink even as they begin to run out of food. And all the while, the tension between them grows, heightened by the fact they’re sitting on a fortune
It might sound predictable, but the film is executed with real energy and a menacing sense of style, the interior darkness marched by the austere outer world. It’s beautifully shot, and the chemistry between Marsan and Claflin propels the story. Gorman, too, brings a grotesque physicality to his role; his drugged-out, emaciated presence adding a creeping sense of perversity that plays out well.
Naturally, things escalate toward violence as grotesque as the soundtrack is unsettling. Whether the ending works may depend on the viewer, but I thought it landed perfectly. Either way, the journey earns your time. It’s one of those small British independent movies that like Marsan’s Ronnie, punches well above its weight and shouldn’t be underestimated.
