The Survivalist

If we keep burning fossil fuels at the rate we’re going, the world will be transformed into a barren wasteland in which the survivors will battle for supremacy with the tools that remain. No, not the first instalment of a new YA sci-fi franchise, but a taciturn art film by director Stephen Fingleton. Paranoia reigns in this bloodthirsty dystopia where human contact is usually accompanied with extreme violence.

A lone survivor with swept-back hair played by Martin McCann tends to his crop, fertilising the soil with a rotting human corpse. Seldom without his rifle, this young man waits for people to pay him a visit so he can dispatch them before they sully his rural idyll. One day an old woman (Olwen Fouere) and her daughter (Mia Goth), tip-toe down his garden path in search of bed and board. But who are they? Are they alone, or an advance party for a gang of hooded marauders? He’s right to think that they’re here to grab his patch, and treats them with caution.

With a script that you could probably fit on to a single cocktail napkin, Fingleton’s language is action not words. Why speak when a fierce glare can do the talking? The claustrophobia of this depopulated world is heightened by filming in close-ups, seldom allowing the viewer to see beyond the narrow perspective of the hero. As a calling card movie, it’s mightily impressive; dramatically lean, gripping where it needs to be, and a story told with satisfying economy.

As robust as it is, the film sorely lacks for originality, as this set-up is essentially co-opted from every zombie movie ever made. And while McCann is clearly consumed entirely by his character, he’s not a tremendously exciting companion to spend time with. But The Survivalist is a gleaming golden ticket to Tinseltown, and it’ll be fascinating to see whether Fingleton takes up the offer or choses to plough his own Bible-black art-house furrow.