Night Duty – A True Story by Luke Green


PC Rory Brown stood under the bright glare of the BP garage shop strip lighting, semi-interestedly browsing the rack of magazines. His operator, Phil, was chatting to the attendant behind the counter, as seemed to have become usual for a night shift. He could hear them now; talking about the power output of their police area car; Phil was blahing it up, but the truth of the matter was that it was simply a Skoda Octavia VRS estate with blue and yellow squares painted on the side.
Rory’s free cappuccino that BP graciously provided every night was long gone and he could think of no good reason to remain here, but Phil and his mate could be chuntering on for ages, Rory knew from painful past experience. Like something out of bloody Alan Partridge. He studied the magazines more intently. Ceebeebies magazine, hmm. Rory wondered how much a children’s TV presenter earned. A quick Google search revealed a number of wildly varying figures, the minimum of which appeared to be £70,000 per year and it also seemed to be a good way of gaining an OBE. At any rate, it had to be better than spending hours hanging around a petrol station on the outskirts of a small home counties town.

Rory was just about to make a protestation to Phil when his personal radio made its first static gurglings in over an hour, “I grade call, 72 Manor Gardens, woman reports her son is making threats to kill. Suspect still on premises. Anyone free to deal?” Rory wasted no time in responding, “November Tango One Two Two.” The controller replied equally as quickly, “Thanks, I’m sending it down to you now.” The car was on run lock, so the details would be on their monitor when they returned to the vehicle. Rory and Phil met at the door on their way out. “Did I really just hear you put us up for that pile of shit?” Phil was incredulous. “72 Manor Gardens, you do know who lives there?” Rory was only too aware that this was the home address of the slightly unkindly nicknamed “Mad” Mary Tucker, a middle aged woman with severe mental health issues who was very well known to every local copper. Mary was arrested at least once a month and Rory had himself remanded her to hospital under section 136 of the Mental Health Act about seven or eight weeks ago.

He also knew that everyone else on the shift would have had the same response as Phil and that if he hadn’t taken the job so keenly the radio would have just been tumble weed. “Yes, I know. But what if he actually does kill her?” Before Phil had the chance to say something along the lines of “good riddance”, Rory continued “you know there’d be a huge inquest and they’d want to know the whereabouts of every unit when that call came out and I don’t think being in the middle of telling a petrol station attendant about the fastest you’ve gone on the A41 would’ve been a good enough excuse not to have taken it.”
It was approaching midnight and the roads were dead. So Rory, being mindful of the sleeping local population, eschewed the sirens, but put the blue lights on. They reached 72 Manor Gardens in less than ten minutes. Phil radioed to the control room, “November Tango One Two Two TOA.”

72 Manor Gardens was a handsome 1930s semi-detached house, identical in design and build to every other house on its street. Manor Gardens itself was part of a larger estate, built when it was in order to home commuters, drawn to this part of the world by the extension of the Metropolitan tube line. Of course, it was a good fifteen miles into London before the trains actually went underground, passengers at this end of the line enjoying a vista of fields, village greens and woodland from their office-bound windows. Rory regarded the street as he got out of the car; tree-lined, leafy – shadowy. The orange glow of a nearby street lamp fought its way bravely out of the boughs of an overhanging lime tree and cast just enough light on number 72 to reveal that, although it was an identical build to its neighbours, it was rather the worse for wear in comparison. It had the integral garage on the left hand side, what looked like the original, solid wood front door in a brick arched porch and two windows on the first floor; a four paned example on the right and a smaller, two paned one, which Rory knew would be a box room, on the left.

However, on closer inspection, it became obvious that the downstairs bay window was made up of dirt-blackened, single glazed glass, framed by splintering wood, from which the dirty, white paint was peeling. None of the sparkling, new PVC of number 74 or its other snooty brethren. The front garden also failed to bear scrutiny in the company of number 74’s pristine rose beds; it was an overgrown tangle of weeds and brambles, just about contained by the presence of a low, brick wall. In the garden’s defence, though, it did lack the sea of beer cans and McDonalds wrappers which it might have accrued in a less salubrious area.

How Mary Tucker lived in such a place was a subject of much conjecture in policing circles. Rory had heard a rumour that her father had been a banker – nothing like today’s multi-millionaires, but perfectly respectable, nonetheless; the manager of a branch of a high street bank, somewhere in central London. Anyhow, Rory wondered what the other residents of Manor Gardens thought of Mary. The mind boggled.

No light was visible emanating from any of the windows of number 72 as Rory and Phil approached the front door and nothing about the facade of the house suggested that anybody – or anything – was awake, or at best alive, inside. Upon finding no doorbell, Phil knocked on the hard wood of the front door. They waited. No answer, no sign of life. Rory rapped on the half moon of glass which occupied the top panel of the door. Still nothing stirred. Phil moved to the bay window to try and shine his torch through, but was thwarted by the presence of heavy curtains and the veil of filth which clung to the glass. Rory took out his baton and banged hard on the door with the hardened rubber handle. Just as the two officers were considering putting the door in, Rory whispered “Shhsh, I think I can hear someone moving in the hallway.” They both held their breath and, suddenly, the sound of bolts being drawn, chains rattling and keys turning came from within.

After what seemed like an age, the front door finally opened inward on a dark, dingy hallway. Standing on the threshold in an old fashioned nightgown, which had once been white but was now greying and rather shapeless, was Mary Tucker, slightly rotund, hunched at the shoulders and with lank, salt and pepper hair hanging across her face. Wordlessly, Mary stepped backward into the hallway, implying consent for the police to enter. Phil went first and Rory followed, closing the door carefully behind him. As he turned back to the hallway from shutting the door, Rory briefly assessed the surroundings. The downstairs of the house was in semi-darkness, lit dimly by a weak glow coming somewhere from the back of house, most likely the kitchen. Leading off the right hand side of the hall were two doorways. Taking up the left hand side of the hall was a set of stairs, leading directly to the first floor landing. There was a faint, yet pervasive odour in the air, something like a mix of ammonia and spices. Rory looked at Mary Tucker. Mary’s eyes were set unwaveringly on Phil. Rory looked at Phil. Phil was staring back at Mary. “Ahem,” Rory cleared his throat deliberately. The spell was seemingly broken and Mary turned her attention toward Rory. “Hello, Mary,” Rory said, “are you OK? Are you hurt at all?”

“No, no, I’m fine” said Mary in an even voice. Rory was relieved that Mary seemed to be a lot calmer and more self-controlled than when he usually dealt with her. Just as well, really, because the current state of mental health care in Britain meant that her home would have been regarded by the authorities as a place of safety for her, so if she had have been distressed or wound up, Rory and Phil would have been facing a bun fight for the rest of their shift (at least) to get her taken elsewhere for care.
Rory continued, “Would you be able to explain to us exact….”

“Hold on, I’ve got to let the cat in.” With that, Mary wandered abruptly off down the hallway, toward the faint source of light. Rory watched her go. As he did, Phil nudged him and gestured toward a scrap of paper resting on top of a small book case at the bottom of the stairs. Rory squinted through the half light at it. Across the paper, in pencil, a spidery, sprawling hand had written “Lord, please deliver us from the creeping evil.” Rory turned to look at Phil, his face creased in a questioning frown. Phil returned his look with a knowing raise of the eyebrows. Rory knew that Phil thought this call was a load of bollocks and he knew that Phil blamed him for being here. He also knew that Phil was probably right and that, if there wasn’t the overhanging likelihood of this turning into a bureaucratic mental health nightmare, then that “prayer” would have been a source of much hilarity.

Both officers straightened their faces and turned their attention down the hallway as Mary returned.
“Right, Mary, what’s been going on tonight?” Phil’s matter-of-fact tone belied his feelings on the whole matter, but Mary did not seem to notice; if she did, she showed no sign of being put out. “Well, he’s saying that I’m driving him mad, depriving him of sleep and sending him to an early grave. He’s saying the only way he’ll get a good night’s sleep is if I was dead.”

“We’re talking about your son here, right?”
“Of course, who else would it be?”
Rory saw Phil’s face tighten and quickly interjected, “And what’s your son’s name, Mary?”
“No, Wilkins.”
“OK. And has Christopher actually directly threatened to kill you?”
“I’ve just told you that, haven’t I?” Mary was becoming agitated. Rory knew that this could happen when she felt she was being questioned. He kept his voice calm and soft. “Can you remember what words he actually used, because, from what you’ve told us so far, we haven’t got any evidence that he’s threatening you.”

Before Mary had a chance to answer, Phil said “Where is Christopher now?” This was a very good question. “Is he still here?” “Yes, he’s in there,” Mary said, gesturing with a nod of her head at the doorway immediately to Phil’s right. Phil looked a little shocked, as the door was open and the room in complete darkness. He stepped away into the hallway slightly.

There had been no movement and no sound from that room throughout the entire exchange. Rory stepped across Phil and reached into the room with his left hand, feeling along the wall inside for a light switch. When he found it and pressed it, nothing happened. The room remained in darkness. Rory entered the room. He squinted to try and get his eyes to adjust. “Hello, is there anybody in here?” The room remained still and silent. Rory reached for his torch. “It’s the police, if you’re in here, make yourself known immediately.” As he spoke, there was a squeaking of furniture springs and a huge black shape, darker than the rest of the shadows, rose up in the corner of the room. Rory switched his torch on and shone it toward the shape. Christopher Wilkins was approximately six foot five and verging on obese. Rory estimated him to be, what, 25 stone? Age probably about 40. Christopher was dressed in grey jogging bottoms, covered in what looked like gravy stains and a heavy, dark coloured jumper. He must have been boiling, Rory thought – the sheen of sweat across Christopher’s bald head confirmed this.

“Hello, mate.” Christopher’s tone was weary, resigned, but gentle and friendly.
“Hello, Christopher,” Rory replied, “would you mind coming out into the hall where there’s some light, so we can see you and I can stop blinding you with my torch.”

Christopher Wilkins stooped through the doorway after Rory and squeezed himself between Phil and the wall. It was now very cosy in the passage. Mary struck up, “See what you’ve done? I’ve had to call the police.” Her voice was rising and becoming shrill, her tone accusatory. “All this because you threaten your own mother!” Christopher put a hand to his forehead and drew it down slowly over his face. “Mum, I haven’t threatened you, I just need to get some sleep. For God’s sake!” His exasperation was obvious.
Before the exchange could continue, Phil said “Rory, why don’t you take Mary upstairs and I’ll stay down here and have a chat with Christopher.”
“Good idea. Come on, Mary, let’s you and me go upstairs and you can tell me a bit more about what’s happened. Is there somewhere comfortable we can go?”
Mary did not look convinced, but she acquiesced, nonetheless, “We can go to my bedroom.”

As Rory moved to follow Mary up the stairs, he noticed Phil smirking.
The last few steps curved round to the right and a narrow landing led from left to right. Immediately on the left, at the back of the house, was the bathroom. At the right hand end of the landing was the box room and leading off the landing directly opposite were the two larger bedrooms. Mary entered the righthand door of these two, which was the master bedroom, facing out over the street. The streetlight outside cast a vague yellow glow over the room, but it was not until Mary turned on the bedside lamp that Rory was able to get a good idea of the space. Having expected Mary’s bedroom to be somewhat of a fleapit, Rory was relieved to find that it was the cleanest, neatest part of the house he had been in so far. There was a double bed in the centre of the room, with its headboard against the landing wall. On the lefthand side, against the other interior wall, was an ornate, wooden dressing table, with a large swing mirror as its centre piece – this was probably an antique, Rory guessed. The wall opposite the bed was taken up entirely by fitted wardrobes and a small bedside table sat on either side of the bed. The sweet, delicate fragrance of rosewater filled the air.

Mary sat down on the bed and looked up at Rory, expectantly. “Well, aren’t you going to sit down?”
“I’ll stay standing, Mary, if you don’t mind; I find it easier to write,” Rory lied. He really did not want to relinquish his advantage over Mary; she was too unpredictable.
Rory could hear the deep, even hum of muffled voices downstairs, as Phil spoke with Christopher.

“Right, Mary,” Rory said, taking out his pocket book and pen, “I need you to think really hard and try to remember exactly what Christopher said to you, because we need to work out if any offences have been committed.” As he said this, Rory felt the soft, gentle pressure of something brushing against his left calf. He looked down, expecting to see the cat that Mary had let in earlier. There was nothing there.
“You OK?” Mary was looking at him suspiciously, her eyes narrowed and scrutinising.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just thought I felt your cat brush past me.”
“Oh, no, you won’t see him. He won’t come out of the kitchen these days.”
“Oh, why’s that?” Rory did not really care, but if he could establish some kind of rapport with Mary, he might be able to get her to talk more and she would be more likely to remain on an even keel.

“He just won’t come further into the house since Christopher’s been like he is.”
“And how has Christopher been?”
“You know, tetchy, irritable. Shouting and that.”
“Well animals can be quite sensitive to people’s moods,” Rory said casually.
“Oh yes, they’re sensitive, animals. They KNOW things.” Mary’s tone was knowing and deliberate, as though she was talking to Rory about a great secret which they shared, as though no elaboration was necessary. Well, that suited Rory, he did not want to hear any elaboration; he was beginning to regret having taken this crappy call and was hoping to all hell that Mary’s story remained as it was, so he could note no offences, bosh the job and get on with his life.

At that moment, there was a great pounding on the stairs, shaking the whole house. Someone or something big was coming up. Thinking Christopher had flipped, Rory rushed out onto the landing, drawing his baton. Nothing. The landing was empty and still. Rory peered over the bannister; nobody on the stairs, the gentle murmur of Phil and Christopher’s voices drifting up from the direction of the kitchen.
Rory turned back toward the bedroom and jumped; Mary was directly behind him. Her face bore the same, narrow eyed, scrutinising look, “What are you doing?”

Rory paused, a little shaken. “I, erm….I thought somebody was coming up the stairs.”
Mary’s expression turned blank and passive, her eyes emotionless, but fixed on Rory’s. “Oh, you hear it, too.” She turned and went back into her bedroom.
“What? Hear what?” Rory followed, wanting an answer from Mary. Mary had gotten into bed and pulled the duvet over herself, laying on her side with her back to Rory and the door. “Forget it. I’m tired. You can go now.”
“You don’t want to pursue the allegation against Christopher?”

Rory lingered in the doorway for a moment. “Well, you know where we are if you need us.”
As he made his way downstairs, Rory knew that his sense of relief was not entirely down to getting rid of this griefy job. He could not explain what had just happened and it troubled him.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, there was Phil, waiting in the hallway for him.

“Where’s the son?”
Phil pointed at the darkened room. “He’s back in there, the poor bastard. Trying to get some sleep. He seems like a nice reasonable bloke, stinks a bit, though. He’s fine, he’s just not getting any sleep; he says his mum spends all night charging up and down the stairs, making a right old racket.”
Rory looked hard at Phil. “It’s not his mum. Let’s go.”

Phil followed Rory, demanding no further explanation; he was just happy to be leaving this crap behind. So was Rory, but for different reasons. Phil pulled the front door closed behind him. “Fancy McDonalds?”

Peccadillo Pictures Presents THE SAMURAI On DVD & On-Demand: 13th April 2015

sam1Peccadillo Pictures Presents

On the edge of a dark forest, where the fear of wolves prevents locals from straying too far from home, a young police officer, Jakob receives a package addressed to the ‘Lone Wolf’. As the night shift starts a mysterious caller claims the package belongs to him. Venturing out alone, Jakob unknowingly delivers a samurai sword to a wild-eyed man in a wedding dress, who entices him to participate in a bloody crusade through the village.

As night wanes something hidden is unleashed to meet the first rays of daylight…

Till Kleinert’s genre debut pulsates with relentless intensity, The Samurai is a daring, outrageous and fascinating journey into the sexual heart of darkness.

On DVD & On-Demand: 13th April 2015
Country: GERMAN / Duration: 79 MINS / Language: GERMAN /
Subtitles: ENGLISH / Cert: 18tbc / RRP: £15.99
Extra Features: UK Exclusive Interview with Director & Cast (More TBC)

UK Trailer:


THE SAMURAI is a thriller that gradually shifts into nightmare territory as it progresses. The reality of a standard police procedure becomes derailed and overshadowed by the anarchic and irrational world that the Samurai inhabits. Jakob’s ever-growing exhaustion bridges the shift in key; from a certain point on, the film itself seems to take place in that grey area between being awake and dreaming. Even the excessive violence, in which the Samurai’s frenzy eventually breaks loose, though bloody and shocking, has a strangely aloof and almost unreal quality within the context of the narrative.

The night brings forward the convergence between hunter and hunted; they are connected by the invisible bond felt by those who are awake while everybody else is sleeping. But there is a connection that runs deeper. Trying to keep the wolf away from the houses, yet, out of a sentiment unexplainable even to himself, unwilling to completely scare it away, Jakob has secretly been feeding it for weeks. It was the smell of the raw meat that has lured the Samurai out of the dark. The Samurai’s origin remains a mystery until the end. One could come to the conclusion that he has emerged from the woods as an incarnation of Jakob’s fear of losing control, summoned by is unacknowledged sexual desires; a shadow whose sole mission seems to be to gleefully unhinge Jakob’s small and orderly world and turn it on its head.

Yet, as frightening as that prospect might seem, it contains an appeal Jakob finds harder and harder to resist as the night progresses. The Samurai is an agent of the unconscious and the repressed, a messiah preaching the liberation of one’s wild impulses by the means of the sword; and the more doggedly Jakob tries to defend his self-image against this philosophy of chaos, the more the subliminal urge to take the gift of his opponent, to give in and relish in his transgression, grows. Together with Jakob we eventually cross the line of the familiar and the morally safe, entering uncharted territory. No one can say how high the price we have to pay for that transgression will be. Only one thing is certain: at the end of the night we will not be the same.


Set and shot in a reclusive, rural East German area close to the Polish border, THE SAMURAI will be rich in local flavour, yet at the same time its themes and aesthetics relate to a larger, archetypical pool of motifs. The dense dark forest locations and uncanny encounters with the dark side of the self, originate from an abundant matrix of Grimm Fairy Tales, German Gothic Romanticism and Jungian psycho-analysis.

Although there is a long tradition of grim and psychological horror in German literature, sadly there are very few contemporary German filmmakers to mine it. Thus, THE SAMURAI also deviates from the muted, self-important pseudo-realism that has become the prevailing language of German Cinema today, going on to direct its own course on an adrenaline rush adventure that encounters the bizarre and the fantastically absurd.


As the name of the genre suggests, first and foremost, a thriller should thrill the audience. While the ‘serious’ genres usually approach phenomena like violence and mental distress from a rational meaning point of view, the thriller puts us right onto the battlefield. Giving up a clear moral vantage point in favour of effect, it allows us to relish in the thrill of fear. Often enough our perspective watching a thriller is ambiguous, alternating in an almost sadomasochistic minefield between the victim’s and the perpetrator’s points of view. We are as much in danger of being eaten by Hannibal Lecter as we are witnesses and accomplices to his deeds – thus exploring our own destructive and anti-social impulses in the safe framework of watching a film.

You can’t get much closer to ‘evil’ than you can when watching a thriller. In an enlightened age, thrillers and horror films are the last resort of the monstrous and the irrational in cinema. In those genres the unconscious, which in spite of all our wishes to control things still has such an enormous influence on our lives.

TILL KLEINERT – Writer, Director & Editor

From an early age Till was fascinated with visual storytelling, drew comics in his teens and at the age of fifteen started to make animated and live action video films with a group of friends. After finishing high school he wrote and directed several shorts before he started studying at the German Film and Television Academy Berlin (DFFB) in 2004. The short films he made during his studies, Hundefutter (2007), Cowboy (2008), Kokon (2009) and Boys Village (2011) have played successfully at many film festivals, including the German Fantasy Film Fest, the Leopards of Tomorrow section in Locarno and the Kurzfilmtage Oberhausen, and won several awards, most notably the German Academy Short Film Award for Kokon in 2009.

Thematically his films so far have been concerned with rites of passage and the liberation from self-inflicted constraints. There is a strong current of atmospheric storytelling running through his films, as well as a fascination with the uncanny and the horrific.

Kleinert is part of the filmmaker’s collective Schattenkante.


JACOB Michel Diercks
SAMURAI Pit Bukowski
HORVATH Uwe Preuss
GRANDMA Ulrike Hanke-Hänsch
KARO Kaja Blachnik


PRODUCTION Schattenkante GbR & German Film and Television Academy Berlin GmbH (dffb)
PRODUCER Anna de Paoli
SET DESIGNER Tomoko Okada & Sandra Fleischer
COSTUME DESIGN Malena Modéer & Vivien Waneck
MAKE-UP ARTIST Sophie Ilg & Jenny Marolf

Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984) A UKHS Xmas Horror Review

sndn1Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984)

Director – Charles E. Sellier Jr.

Starring – Robert Brian Wilson, Lilyan Chauvin, Gilmer McCormick, Toni Nero, Linnea Quigley, Britt Leach, Charles Dierkop.

Christmas is coming, the turkey’s getting fat, here comes Santa Claus… With his giant effin’ axe! Ho-ho bloody ho!
Ah, Silent Night, Deadly Night. Despised by critics, cherished by cult horror afficianados, this glorious near legendary slasher from the sub genres golden holiday themed age (think April Fools Day, My Bloody Valentine et al) tells the heartwarming story of Billy – a young man with a serious aversion to all things festive.

You see, as a child Billy and his baby brother Ricky were the unfortunate witnesses to the violent Christmas Eve (“The scariest damn night of the year!” according to their nuts-o grandpa) murder of their parents by some rotter dressed as Santa. After spending the next decade in an orphanage headed by a tyrannical Mother Superior, Billy finally flips after being coerced into a Father Christmas suit and embarks on a nasty yuletide killing spree all of his own.

SNDN2Though it may lack the sophistication of its closest brethren, Bob Clark’s nerve shredding Black Christmas and Lewis Jackson’s surprisingly disturbing Christmas Evil, SNDN is arguably the most essential seasonal shocker of the lot: a cheap, wonderfully mean spirited exploiter and the perfect remedy for all us Grinches out there already sick to bastard death of “good will to all men”. Big axe whacks, antler impalings and slayride decapitations- this is cracking, must see stuff.
Released to a storm of controversy back in ’84 thanks to its now iconic poster and ad campaign, SNDN actually briefly outgrossed it’s weekend horror competitor A Nightmare On Elm Street before being pulled from Stateside theatres by its distributor Tri-Mark. Sadly, the film wasn’t released at all over here in the UK, remaining the stuff of gorehound legend until those wonderful folks at Arrow unleahed it onto DVD in 2009.
sndn3For those locked by region two coding, get a hold of it at once- you can scoop it up for less than a pack of cigarettes! For multi region connoisseurs (as everyone should be in this day and age), get your import on and go for the Starz/Anchor Bay American “Christmas Survival Double Feature” disc where it’s paired with its stunning first sequel (more on that later…).
Eight gruesome stockings out of Ten.

Devoured (2012) DVD Review


Devoured (2012)
Dir. Greg Olliver
Starring – Marta Milans, Kara Jackson, Bruno Gunn, Tyler Hollinger.
Released UK – 16th September 2013
UK release Matchbox Films .

Lourdes (Marta Milans) is a single mother who has left her son with her Mother in Mexico and travelled to New York to work. She needs to earn as much money as possible to send home as her son is ill and needs an operation.

So Lourdes works at a high-class restaurant through the night where she cleans and prepares it for the next day. She earns minimum wage and the only thing that keeps her going is her son with whom she speaks to every night.

Lourdes has to deal with the harsh, uncaring modern New York where poverty sits hand in hand with decadence. Her employer Kristen (Kara Jackson) is a bitch. She sleeps with the chef, bullies Lourdes continually and drinks a lot of red wine!

The chef Billy (Tyler Hollinger) is a seemingly threatening sexual predator who Lourdes has to keep at arm’s length as her boss Kristen threatened to “cut off her hands and feed them to her” if she ever touched Billy.

Lourdes does have some comfort in a chance meeting (well bumping into) with local fireman Frankie (Bruno Gunn) who is friendly and a shoulder to cry on.
So that is Lourdes world, a struggle for everyday survival in a foreign and strange city. BUT Lourdes is also seemingly having a mental breakdown due to the pressure of her situation.

She is seen talking to a friend at the bar of the restaurant whilst the CCTV image shows her alone, she also continues to see a dark , silhouetted figure of a man in the restaurant. And she continues to have flashbacks of happier times with her son Oliver, and everywhere seems to reminds her of him.


As the film progresses Lourdes seems to be slipping further towards a full breakdown, but Lourdes believes there could be a supernatural elements at play here.
So Lourdes must try to get as much money as possible back to her son so he can get his much-needed operation.

Devoured is just a joy. It is a very slow-paced psychological thriller, with some wonderful horror and supernatural elements. It draws you in from the start and keeps you on the edge of your seat with a gentle increase in tension minute by minute.
Marta Milans is just wonderful as Lourdes , she is almost silent for the first half of the film apart from the odd conversation with her son & mother on the phone. Every minute of her performance is utterly convincing and at the moment THE stand-out performance of 2013 by a male or female lead (in this humble reviewers opinion) .

Her gradual descent into madness is compelling yet heartbreaking, this is a woman leading a back-breaking existence to send home her meagre wages to save her son’s life whilst having to work in an environment where people pay hundreds of dollars just for a meal!!
Director Greg Olliver is mainly known for his documentary work , which includes the great film Lemmy (the legendary Motorhead frontman). But with Devoured he shows that he is ready and very able to work in full length features and his touch and vision is very well suited to this type of psychological horror.

As Lourdes is silent through a lot of the film then the background noise becomes almost the foreground noise. The sounds of the railway and the traffic noise in the background gives a feeling of almost isolation and solitude yet in a city of millions.

The soundtrack is very understated with light piano just to add to the melancholy of Lourdes daily routine and her sad existence in a small, bare room with no soul or even sign of life.
A couple of things that I really enjoyed were the use of the CCTV in the restaurant, which seemed to show what was *really* happening rather than what Lourdes was thinking was happening and secondly the use of very small brief scenes. Throughout Devoured I think there were only about 3 scenes that lasted more than 2 minutes, it was just a quick scene followed by another but these were all beautifully linked together and a feeling of continuity was apparent throughout, with each scene and set exquisitely arranged and filmed. Everything on film is their for a reason and perfect down to the most minute detail.

Finally there are a few twists and turns along the way that lead to a great ending, I saw these coming a long way off but this in no way took anything away from the film itself. In fact it is nice sometimes when the pay-off at the end actually works and the viewer is not left thinking “What the hell?”.
Devoured has some genuinely frightening moments and a drip-drip of constant dread and fear. A beautiful film that shocks, scares and may just break your heart.

A quite shocking and often disturbing film that shows poverty and decadence can live quite unhappily together in modern times!

Verdict 8.5/10