Calf

Trouble brews on a remote Irish farm, as the farmer sets out on his daily chores, and the whole family prepares for the birth of a new calf.

As the scene opens on the farm in the early morning, everything is already dark and brooding and faintly menacing. The clanking of the chain on the back of the tractor, and the view we have from the rear, shows us the black emptiness that we have come from without revealing yet where it is we might be going. Further into the darkness, alone in the shed, a cow lies prostrate on the ground, her calf moving inside her, undulating under her skin, looking like some sort of alien presence parasitically inhabiting its mother’s body.

Farmer Michael (Hogan) knows he’s got to get the morning work done quickly. He’s out there doling out the feed in the darkness, fag hanging from his lips, scooping pellets into troughs, knowing that the day is coming for him and that he needs to be ready for it. As we watch Michael in his work, we see what else is coming for him from behind, something he is completely oblivious to, as the tractor slips its handbrake and starts rolling down the hill towards him. Next to Animal Farm and Cold Comfort Farm, this might just be one of the most horrifying and cursed farmyards in all of narrative history.

Inside the farmhouse, Michael’s family are at the breakfast table ready to start their day. The sun has broken, the bacon is frying, and Cáit (Connolly) is listening to music on her phone, earphones in like most teenagers, waiting for her mum, Aine (Nic Chonaonaigh), to serve her. It’s only when Cáit is asked to go outside and fetch her father in for breakfast that we all find out together just what has happened to Michael, whilst also having to deal with the realisation that his daughter is not moved in any way to help him. Just what is going on down on this quiet, family farm?

As we are led into this dark narrative by writer/director, Jamie O’Rourke and cinematographer, Colm Hogan, we immediately get the feeling that something is off. The opening shot, looking behind us, not seeing where we’re going, is indicative of the direction of the narrative as most things are kept from us until right near the end of the film. This gives both filmmakers the time and space to build the tension and the atmosphere around the farm as we try to piece together just what is going on. The visuals spark a feeling of horror, with enclosed spaces, framed claustrophobically, dimly lit, giving off a sense of something hidden under the surface; a rippling tension that creates nausea and unease, hinting at the fact that something is going to have to be released sooner or later.

The constant referral to the calf that is due to be birthed that day, keeps bringing us back to the visceral reality of nature that exists all around us, in all of its dirty, mud ridden, bloody detail. We see that the family exist in this reality every day, working with nature, getting their hands dirty, and even becoming numb to the physical pressures and dangers that exist when living so close to the earth. This feeds into the characterisation of the family, especially Cáit and her mother, and we wonder at the seeming detachment of Cáit in the face of such brutal circumstances. Both Isabelle Connolly and Kate Nic Chonaonaigh play their roles with such understated grace and strength, that it keeps the viewer not just interested, but transfixed to the screen, as we become invested in understanding their situation as well as their reactions to it.

Calf does in fifteen short minutes what a lot of horror films fail to do in a full ninety or more, and that is to build the feeling of tension and horror in the audience without giving too much away. Not until the last scene do we understand what horrors have really transpired on that farm, and the subtle recognition visible between mother and daughter then allows the dam to burst on all the emotions the audience has been feeling, keeping inside, up until that point. The narrative, and subsequent direction and photography, along with a subtle but affecting score from Orla O’Rourke, all pull together to build the scenario and all of the unease that the audience feels, creating a clear vision of true horror that is expressed in every frame of the film.

Calf is a nightmarish vision that needs very little to be said in order for it to get its point across to the audience. It is a story told not in words, but in pictures, and in light, or the absence of it, as the world of nature on the farm is revealed to us piece by piece. The relationships between the characters don’t get explained to us, and they never need to, as everything is expressed to us visually in front of the camera, from small facial expressions, to silent movements, to bloody births and deaths, which tell us everything we need to know if we just look close enough. Calf is a tour-de-force in terms of visual storytelling, and the absence of too much dialogue only enhances the seclusion and anxiety we feel while we’re down on the farm.

For a small indie film with only fifteen minutes to tell its story, Calf reaches into your insides and wrestles with your guts to pull your emotions from the inside out. It doesn’t need big scares, or gory overtures to get the blood pumping and the tension rising, and its quiet, understated nature helps define it as an artwork of pure horror; one which builds inside the mind and body of the viewer until it can finally be released in its closing moments, in another quiet, simple showing of unmitigated, unseen horrors that are often silently endured.