Beverley (Alison Steadman) has invited a few friends over for the evening, much to the chagrin of her husband, Laurence (Tim Stern), a mild-mannered real-estate agent who would prefer a quiet evening of light classical music. Their guests are their new neighbours, upbeat Angela (Janine Duvitski) and her droll husband Tony (John Salthouse), as well as Susan (Harriet Reynolds), a reserved divorcee, whose presence is only due to her young daughter (the titular, unseen Abigail), who is throwing a party at their home, and would prefer not to have her mother present for what is likely to be traditional teenage debauchery. Over the course of the evening, the hosts and their guests go from relative strangers to more intimate companions, learning more about the other with each passing drink, which reveals an unsettling sense of social anxiety underpinning each of them, with their existences being fully dependent on their ability to conceal the truth, and go about their lives as if each of them isn’t profoundly unhappy with the way they’ve each turned out – they’re shown to not be particularly happy with their marriages, as evident by the growing flirtations between the free-spirited Beverley and the dour Tony, while their spouses remain entirely complacent to the emotional adultery slowly transpiring before them. They’re not happy with their careers – any talk of work is swiftly swept to the side. Most of all, they’re just deeply unhappy with the lives they’ve been given – spending evenings in cramped living rooms, sipping cheap alcohol while making friendly conversation is all that they seem to know how to do – so it only makes sense that this evening will be the breaking point for all of them. The bitter truths are revealed, ending in a grim climax in which they finally surrender to the inevitable despair that has slowly been encompassing each one of them, with this particular evening seeing them reach a grotesque peak that none of them are likely to ever recover from.

One of the most fascinating qualities about the work of Mike Leigh is that regardless of how much we think we grasp the general gist of what we’re about to see, absolutely nothing can prepare us for the innumerable surprises that lurk beneath his stories. Abigail’s Party is an adaptation of the director’s long-running stage production of the same title (or rather, a filmed version of the play), and sees him evoking many of the deep social issues that he would exploit later in his career, crafting a delicate dark comedy that is never afraid to tread through disconcerting territory in how it represents the working-class, and their various quandaries that tend to keep them up at night, which all converge into this unsettling portrayal of a group of individuals trying their best to make their way through a very confusing stage in their lives. Leigh would go on to make bolder and more profoundly moving films later in his career, but the early indications of his capacities as a filmmaker were very much present here in Abigail’s Party, which distracts from its low-budget production and status as nothing more than a filmed play through intricate writing, a keen sense of the human condition and a set of performances that bring out the nuance in a selection of deplorable individuals, to the point where we simply cannot look away from the events that transpire, regardless of how morally bankrupt these people appear to be. A work of raw, gritty brilliance, Abigail’s Party is a firm indication of Leigh’s gifts as both a skilled dramatist and brilliant social satirist, right from the outset of his career.

Going into Abigail’s Party without much knowledge of the plot specifics is certainly quite an experience, as there is a sense of unease right from the outset – the interactions between the characters at the start are stiff and unnatural, and considering this hails from the mind of one of the great directors of the human condition, who normally derives nothing but extraordinary performances from his cast, this was quite disconcerting – until one realizes that this, like everything else in this film, was entirely by design. What starts as an upbeat, hilarious comedy of manners instead turns into a bleak, unsettling tale of despair that doesn’t peer into the human condition so much as it eviscerates it. Made during Leigh’s self-professed “angry young man” period, Abigail’s Party is an arid social drama that presents a kind of fury towards the social machinations of Britain at the time. Made on the precipice of Thatcherism, there’s a brutality to how Leigh presents this story of the middle class (who may actually be members of the working class too afraid to outwardly express who they truly are, skirting around the question with uncomfortable ease), creating a sense of deep angst in these people and how they operate in everyday life. Evoking, amongst other works, Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf in its presentation of one evening descending into chaos as the drinks flow and the honest revelations are expressed, Leigh’s story, which was constructed alongside his collaborators in the cast, seeks to espouse certain truths about society that were not spoken about at the time – while Ken Loach and Alan Clarke were more concerned with broader issues like teenage delinquents and poverty, Leigh was more interested in those on the fringes of suffering – the people who work hard enough to appear to have happy lives, but are actually going through agony below their composed exteriors. There’s an anger pulsating through Abigail’s Party that manages to be memorable without being gaudy, mainly because the situations may be constructed, but the intentions behind them are anything but artificial, with Leigh’s authentic style being the reason this film succeeds in the way it does.

If there’s one element that almost everyone can universally agree on, its that Leigh is exceptional when it comes to assembling casts for his films. This is due to two main factors, other than his own understanding of how to write memorable characters. Firstly, he collaborates mainly with a small group of actors who recur throughout most of his films, particularly the earlier ones. Secondly, he has always constructed these films less with him in charge, but rather as a collaborative effort with all of his actors, allowing them the space to explore their characters and come up with their own distinct personalities. It gives his plays and films a more homely, intimate quality, and brings out the best in the actors, with all of them giving far more authentic performances than they would’ve had they simply been given a text to convey without adding their own individual input. Alison Steadman, who lingered on and collaborated with Leigh (who she was married to at the time) in many of his future works, plays the central character of Beverley, a woman who tries to conceal her working-class background, suppressing her roots through the way she speaks (and the content of her conversations) and how she dresses. This is contrasted with her husband, played by Tim Stern, who considered himself to be the picture of candour, even when it’s clear that he doesn’t have the courage to stand up for himself, especially against a wife who does her best to assert control over him. This coupling stands alongside Janine Duvitski and John Salthouse, who complement them, playing just as conflicted characters who also endure existential despair and questions of their own status, while being remarkably different in their approach. These five characters are incredibly unlikeable, and all the actors do their best to bring out their despicable nuances in a way that repulses the audience, but still keeps us engaged, which is always an indication of a film’s merits when it is able to take such deplorable archetypes and turn them into compelling characters.

The style of the film works with the context of the story – set entirely within a squalid East London living room, the drama unfolds in a single location, with nothing to hide the animosity brewing between these characters. It gives Abigail’s Party the necessary feel of claustrophobic dread, with the gradual descent from more upbeat to bleak being represented in the slow decline of the characters and their attitudes. This is one of the rare filmed plays that actually makes sense in this format, because within this restrictive sensation, the truly harrowing drama underlying the story would have been lost, and the tension that the film relies on nowhere to be found, which would’ve stripped it of its potency as a powerful piece of social commentary – escape begins to feel impossible, and Leigh engages with this sensation by always making it seem like we’re on the precipice of exiting this hostile environment, which grows more unpleasant the further the film goes. The core of the film is suburban angst and the despair these characters feel towards their surroundings – whether veterans of the neighbourhood (in the case of Beverley and Laurence), or newcomers (like the invited guests), they all work through the perils of their social situation, reflected in their growing disdain for each other and their general situation, which is only worsened by the fact that they’re all misleading the other into believing that they truly are more than just the definition of suburban stereotypes. Leigh engages in a very unique form of character assassination, positioning these individuals as inherently despicable, and slowly unveiling even more deplorable behaviour that leads the audience to feel a sense of complete frustration, to the point where the death that ends the film is not only shocking but also quite relieving, as it puts an end to the endless cycle of pretension and social disorder that the film relishes in conveying.

Abigail’s Party is an incredibly unpleasant film, which is thoroughly by design – Mike Leigh has never wavered from telling difficult stories that challenge the confines of society or provoking the many insecurities collectively embedded in the human condition. This is how you get a message across – not through despair, but rather through deconstruction, with the film engaging in a familiar art form (the stage production), making use of its conventional tendencies while slowly subverting them, leading to a piece that gradually becomes more unpleasant and uncomfortable as it progresses. Anchored by the performances of a terrific ensemble, all of which manage to take control of difficult characters, conveying them with a sincerity and gusto that is admirable for any actor. Working with Leigh to develop these characters, Abigail’s Party is as much a product of their own efforts as the director, mainly because it presents us with an unsettling character-driven piece that blends comedy, social drama and psychological thriller in incredibly unexpected ways, all of which are conveyed through these exceptional performances that start as stiff and unnatural, but become more intense as the film ventures deeper into the story it attempts to tell. Abigail’s Party is not a film that everyone will be able to connect with – certainly a capsule of a bygone era, especially in its unique visual style and the mentalities of the characters at the core, while still being able to portray middle-class anxieties with a poignancy not normally expected from such an outright, frank drama. There are many macabre and harrowing surprises lurking beneath the seemingly-pleasant experience of Abigail’s Party, and whether you seek it out for the sake of the performance, the razor-sharp wit or the genre-bending execution, there’s no doubt that its a work of disquieting brilliance, and a perfect indicator of the true talents of someone like Mike Leigh, who was challenging conventions right from the start.