As the curtains drew open at the 2023 Sundance Film Festival, a sense of anticipation hung in the air, waiting to be devoured by the eager audience. And then, like a whispered secret, “The Thing With Feathers” fluttered onto the screen, leaving a trail of emotional destruction in its wake. Benedict Cumberbatch, the master of playing complex characters, takes center stage as a grief-stricken man struggling to come to terms with the loss of his young daughter. This powerful portrayal of sorrow, guilt, and the dark side of human nature is a masterclass in acting, making it a must-watch at this year’s Sundance Film Festival. With its haunting cinematography and a narrative that will leave you breathless, “The Thing With Feathers” is a cinematic experience that will linger long after the credits roll. Join us as we dive into the world of this heart-wrenching film and explore the incredible performance of Benedict Cumberbatch in this gripping and emotional
The Thing With Feathers: Benedict Cumberbatch’s Haunting Exploration of Grief
Crows rustle in Dylan Southern’s fiction feature debut, the haunting story of a middle-aged man coming to terms with the sudden and unexpected death of his wife, the mother of his two boys. In terms of genre, it’s hard to place, sitting somewhere between social drama and heightened horror; if Ken Loach dreamed up The Babadook, it might look something like this. Southern—previously known for such heady, experiential and you-are-there music docs as Shut Up and Play the Hits (2012) and Meet Me in the Bathroom (2022)—brings the visceral immediacy of those films to a very raw and emotional subject matter. For all the artistry behind it, however, The Thing with Feathers will likely prove divisive; for survivors of trauma, it will likely be cathartic, but for others more fortunate, its pitch-perfect portrayal of loss might be a touch too uncomfortable. This is one of those films where the characters don’t have names, so the father is simply Dad. Played by Benedict Cumberbatch, he is an artist of sorts; some people call his work “comic books”, others call them “graphic novels”, a term he thinks is “wanky”. His output is alluded to in the film’s atmospheric credit sequence, in which a restless, scratchy charcoal pencil attacks white paper, the claustrophobia of which is intensified by the director’s intimate use of Academy ratio. Random, sombre words accompany the images of black-feathered birds (“Sad Dad”, “She’s gone”), so it’s not much of a surprise when the screen turns black and sound design takes over, economically depicting an unseen funeral. Watch on Deadline “I thought you both did really well today,” says Dad to his two young boys, subtly confirming the truth that we, already, would rather not know. Even if he hadn’t said it, the cinematography and production design are on top of things; this is a house that is missing something. A happy family home should not be lit like a Vermeer painting, and Dad’s brother makes a more modern illusion when he swings by. “It’s a bit like Tracy Emin’s kitchen in here,” making reference to the British artist’s controversial 1998 piece My Bed. Dad is trying to keep things together, sending his kids to school, feeding them and reading to them at night (although the folkloric story of Baba Yaga might not be most suitable material for devastated pre-teens). But recent events keep plaguing him, and, though we hear it and never see it, the impact is as harrowing as if we had. There was blood, she was on the floor, she wasn’t breathing. Around this time, the film’s adversary makes himself known. Voiced by David Thewlis, Crow is one of Dad’s artistic creations, but now he comes off the page and into the real world. And Crow is entirely at odds with what’s happening in the real world: Dad’s therapist wants him to come to terms with things, but Dad isn’t sure that he wants to do that; just pack up his memories and put them in storage. By contrast, Crow believes in a more “therapeutic” method, taunting Dad in his lowest moments with insults and violence. “Come on, do your worst,” says Dad. “No,” says Crow, “I intend to do my best.” With some occasional interference from the outside world, this brutal sparring between Dad and Crow is pretty much the core of The Thing with Feathers, a yin-and-yang thing that Southern illustrates perfectly in an intense, drunken scene choreographed to Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “Feast of the Mau Mau”. Being the product of Dad’s mind, Crow really knows how to hurt him, mocking his liberal tendencies and, worse, describing his artwork as “piss-poor”, adding that it “looks like a Vettriano” (an insult that stings worse than the Emin jibe). This all builds to an impressive study of self-implosion, and Dad’s mental state, while delicately handled, will be identifiable to anyone even remotely adjacent to such a seismic loss: His unwillingness to see visitors, his inability to take phone calls, and his refusal to accept reality (in a heart-wrenching and beautifully subtle touch, his
A Bleakly Beautiful Portrait of Loss
The Power of Subtlety: Exploring Cumberbatch’s Performance
In The Thing with Feathers, Benedict Cumberbatch plays a London creator of graphic novels who, quite suddenly, finds himself a widower (his beloved wife collapsed on the kitchen floor and died). In an early scene, we see him try and sustain an atmosphere of everyday normality as he puts breakfast together for his two young sons. But it’s not happening. He feels like he’s juggling four tasks at once; he burns the toast and then frantically tries to scrape off the charred part (a mistake). The character, who is never named (he’s referred to in the credits as “Dad”), has already shown the depths of his grief, sitting on the couch after the funeral, his tears slowly gushing forth. When Benedict Cumberbatch enacts a moment like this, you can bet that you’re not just seeing an actor cry; you’re seeing him act with every tear. Cumberbatch’s performance is a masterclass in understatement. He doesn’t resort to melodrama or histrionics; instead, he conveys the agonizing weight of grief through subtle shifts in expression, hesitant movements, and a palpable sense of isolation.
Southern’s Directorial Vision: From Music Docs to Grief-Laced Drama
Southern’s previous work as a documentary filmmaker is evident in the film’s immersive and intimate approach. The film feels raw and unfiltered, placing the audience directly in the protagonist’s headspace. This style, honed in films like Shut Up and Play the Hits (2012) and Meet Me in the Bathroom (2022), effectively captures the disorientation and emotional turmoil of grief. The use of sound design, particularly the haunting score by Andrew D’Angelo, is another key element in Southern’s directorial vision. Sound blends seamlessly with visuals, creating a sense of unease and psychological claustrophobia that mirrors the protagonist’s internal state.
The Unsettling Atmosphere: Cinematography, Sound Design, and the Weight of Silence
The film’s nocturnal palette, dominated by deep blues and grays, further amplifies the sense of melancholy and foreboding. Cinematographer Adam Suschitzky employs long takes and close-ups to draw the audience into the protagonist’s world, capturing the smallest details of his expression and the subtle ways in which he navigates his surroundings. The sound design, masterfully crafted by Steve Jones, is equally effective. The silence is just as potent as the music; it speaks volumes about the protagonist’s emotional detachment and inability to connect with the world around him.
When Grief Takes Form: The Thing With Feathers’ Unique Metaphor
The Crow as a Manifestation of Sorrow: A Psychological Exploration
Crow, voiced by David Thewlis in a performance that is both menacing and pitifully human, is more than just a figment of Dad’s imagination. He represents the dark side of grief, the raw, unfiltered emotions that Dad is struggling to confront. Crow is a constant reminder of Dad’s loss, a manifestation of the pain and anger he is trying to suppress.
David Thewlis’ Voice: A Haunting Counterpoint to Cumberbatch’s Pain
Thewlis’ voice, with its gravelly texture and underlying vulnerability, creates a chillingly effective counterpoint to Cumberbatch’s more subdued performance. Crow’s words are often laced with sarcasm and cruelty, highlighting the destructive nature of unchecked grief. Yet, there’s also a sense of pathos in Thewlis’ voice, a hint of sorrow that suggests that Crow, too, is a victim of this internal conflict.
The Duality of Healing: Therapy vs. Confronting the Darkness
The film explores the different ways people cope with loss. Dad seeks solace in avoidance, trying to shut out the world and his pain. Crow, on the other hand, represents a more confrontational approach, forcing Dad to face his demons head-on. The struggle between these two forces is central to the film’s narrative, raising questions about the nature of healing and the importance of confronting our inner darkness.
Navigating the Labyrinth of Grief: A Film for Survivors and Spectators
The Cathartic Effect: Finding Solace in Shared Experience
For those who have experienced the profound pain of loss, The Thing with Feathers can be a profoundly cathartic experience. It validates the complexity and rawness of grief, offering a sense of shared understanding and recognition. The film’s unflinching portrayal of the grieving process, both its internal and external manifestations, can be a source of comfort, reminding viewers that they are not alone in their struggles.
The Discomfort Zone: Is The Thing With Feathers Too Much for Some?
However, the film’s unflinching realism may be too intense for some viewers. The lack of easy answers, the relentless exploration of emotional darkness, and the film’s refusal to shy away from the ugliest aspects of grief can be overwhelming. It is a film that demands emotional engagement and may not be suitable for all audiences.
Opening Conversations: How Can Art Help Us Talk About Loss?
Ultimately, The Thing with Feathers is a film that invites us to confront the uncomfortable realities of grief. By giving voice to the unspoken, by exploring the complexities of loss, and by refusing to offer easy solutions, Southern’s film challenges us to engage in a more honest and meaningful conversation about death, mourning, and the enduring power of human connection. It reminds us that grief is not a linear process; it is a labyrinthine journey that each of us must navigate in our own way.
Conclusion
“The Thing With Feathers” isn’t just a film about a grieving man wrestling with his inner demons; it’s a chillingly honest exploration of the raw, consuming power of loss. Benedict Cumberbatch delivers a masterclass in vulnerability, portraying the descent into darkness with a chilling intensity that stays with you long after the credits roll. The film’s exploration of grief’s multifaceted nature – the suffocating loneliness, the anger, the desperate search for connection – transcends the boundaries of personal tragedy, offering a universal reflection on the human condition.
This isn’t a tidy, comforting narrative, but a raw and unsettling journey that forces us to confront the uncomfortable truths about grief. It challenges us to acknowledge the darkness that can lurk within us, even in the face of profound love. “The Thing With Feathers” leaves us with more questions than answers, prompting us to consider the delicate balance between confronting our pain and succumbing to its overwhelming grip. It’s a film that lingers, demanding to be dissected and ruminated upon, a testament to the power of cinema to illuminate the darkest corners of the human experience.
Ultimately, “The Thing With Feathers” is a reminder that grief, in its many forms, is a relentless force. It’s a journey we all must navigate, and in its unflinching honesty, the film offers a starkly beautiful glimpse into the depths of human resilience.
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