Enys Men: A Rapturously Photographed Experimental Folk Horror
Set in 1973 on an uninhabited island off the Cornish coast, a wildlife volunteer's daily observations of a rare flower turn into a metaphysical journey that forces her as well as the viewer to question what is real and what is nightmare.
Mary Woodvine comes unstuck in time in Mark Jenkin’s beguiling experimental folk horror, Enys Men. Its title is Cornish for “Stone Island,” and Woodvine plays an unnamed wildlife volunteer (credited simply as The Volunteer) doing a six-month stint on the uninhabited island to monitor a rare flower specific to the region. Much of the film is an observation of her daily routine, which includes a trip to the coast to see the flower, a pit stop at an old mine shaft, and a return home to the generator-powered stone cabin for a bit of tea and to record the day’s findings: the ominously repetitious “No change” that haunts over the film and fills her composition journal day after day. Along the way, there are gloomy distress signals from a ship that sunk long ago, unexplained visitors (with potential ties to our character’s past), and strange encounters with a standing rock that give way to hallucinatory visions of miners, bal maidens, and Celtic pagans in full May Day splendor, amongst other things. Naturally, there is an eventual change, and due to the monotony of Woodvine’s daily regimen, the mysterious appearance of a fruticose lichen — along with any slight deviation — registers with the forceful splash of a rock hurled down a mine shaft.
The line between reality and feverish fantasy was already blurry before the lichen appeared, but once it drops into Enys Men’s story, Woodvine’s metaphysical journey and all the film’s historical and ecological themes thicken into an intoxicating and elusive elixir. As the lichen overtakes first the flower and then Woodvine’s body (via a prominent scar on her abdomen), Jenkin continues to mix The Volunteer’s personal tragedies with the specters of the island’s past with little to no explanation, painting in the abstract with vivid color and inviting many possible readings. Is the standing rock actually communicating to Woodvine or has she just lost her marbles living is isolation? Could it be that the entire film is a “stone tape” of humankind’s attempt to civilize the isolated island, communicated to us directly from the psychic static of the standing rock? Is it about our bodies and history being overtaken by nature, or is it all a celluloid dream steeped in and haunted by the rich history of Cornwall? Your guess is as good as anyone’s, and that’s a part of Enys Men’s appeal, alienating as it may be.
Although the film works within the folk horror genre, it certainly doesn’t concern itself with coloring within the lines of genre conventions. Its influences are more obscure and esoteric than you might suspect; it has more in common with The Stone Tape, an early-70s made-for-TV sci-fi/ghost story, than it does well-know British folk horror staples, like The Wickerman. In a sense, it’s similar to Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining in its “history as horror” approach and how the ghosts of the island linger, but they’re fundamentally and aesthetically two very different films. Another way to look at it is a mash-up of Jeanne Dielman, 23 Commerce Quay, 1080 Brussels and The Lighthouse co-directed by Andrei Tarkovsky and Nicolas Roeg. There’s certainly a bit of Don’t Look Now, Mirror, and Solaris lurking within its DNA. Of course, there are elements, both stylistic and tonal, that are similar to his previous film, Bait, albeit with even more progressive experimentation, which brands it less straightforward and more oneiric.
If you’re not a fan of making sense of the film’s hazy ambiguity, you’re in luck because it’s an objectively beautiful film, and there’s great joys to be had simply basking in the natural beauty of its views and vistas. There is a Malick-like quality to its poetic beauty, and there are many breathtaking images and sequences that stick in the mind, whether you fully grasp their meaning or not: the young woman standing on the stone cabin; the shot of the rock tumbling down the mine shaft for the umpteenth time; the seven bal maidens dancing on the rocky cliff; the drowned body in the yellow raincoat. The film is set in 1973 (as evident only by The Volunteer’s daily observations journal), and it feels totally unearthed from that period. Like Bait, Jenkin shot Enys Men on 16mm using a Bolex camera without sound, which he would fill in later with ADR and foley work during editing, but he makes the bold move into color here, using Kodak film stock that gives the film a striking period look, full of rich, saturated colors that jump right off the screen and crawl with grain. Jenkin’s smooth creeping zooms and jarring juxtapositional edits further add to the charm and complete the 70s-style edge. The ethereal score (also by Jenkin) solidifies the dreamy atmosphere with its haunting melodies and analog texture, and it gives the stunning visuals an appropriately brooding and hypnotic accompaniment.
Answers may not come as easy as the views, but Enys Men has an undeniable wraith-like quality, vague and wispy, that gives it a haunting beauty and affect. It’s fundamentally an experiential picture, and you’ll just have to experience its slow-burning madness firsthand to decide for yourself. There is a satisfaction in its lean, yet expansive journey, and a resinous quality to its themes and how they’re worked, via performances, style, and editing. It’s going to be divisive, and there’s a high likelihood that you might not lichen what you get, but we think this puzzling Cornish gem is one of the year’s strongest efforts.
Recommendation: This one is not going to be for everyone, but it’s a unique film to experience. Casual viewers may struggle or reject it, but those looking for something new may be rewarded by what they find in this dreamy stunner.
What do you think? We want to know. Share your thoughts and feelings in the comments section below, and as always, remember to viddy well!