There are few voices in contemporary cinema more exciting than that of Peter Strickland. For just over a decade, he has continuously pushed the boundaries of what is possible to do and say in terms of films, his work being a feverish blend of homages to a bygone era in filmmaking and biting satire that comes from someone with the ability to make the keenest and astute observations about the modern world. Each one of his films is a masterfully hand-crafted ode to the perverse and grotesque nature of the human condition, all of them being pieced together from a genuinely disconcerting sense of unease that Strickland doesn’t avoid, but rather openly embraces in a way that is quite often ridiculously daring. The Duke of Burgundy has always lingered as one of his more unheralded works – it isn’t as easily accessible as Berberian Sound Studio, nor does it have the acclaim amongst the general population as In Fabric – instead, it is a film caught between the two, one that is beloved amongst an elite group of individuals who are either enamoured with this film itself or Strickland’s entire career, but still sits just out of view when it comes to cursory analyses of his body of work, functioning as one of his most peculiar works, but not one that lacks anything in terms of nuance, being a fascinating character study that is both darkly humorous and outright terrifying, the director negotiating the division between the two consistently and with incredible foresight for how a particular scene with conveying a specific message, each one valuable in decoding the seemingly impenetrable structure of this film.

The Duke of Burgundy is best appreciated by those who are at least partially on the director’s wavelength, or have some prior experience with his work. For those who are newer to his style, this film is likely to be bewildering in ways that we don’t immediately realize until we’re fully immersed in his world. The story of a pair of sadistic lepidopterologists who live in seclusion in a mansion which is located in an indeterminable part of the world, and engage in sordid games of master-and-servant in between lectures on the fragile beauty of nature, something they have dedicated their life to studying, almost as if it aids in excusing their fervent and animalistic desires that are built on abuse and violence. Even trying to give a brief summary of The Duke of Burgundy seems impossible, since so much of what propels the film is embedded in the tone. Strickland’s work doesn’t lend itself to the most straightforward analysis – the stories themselves leap liberally between past and present, and this film in particular is not only built on the inconsistent nature of time, but also on the concept of repetition. We’re rarely afforded answers to the challenging questions that exist at the base of the film – there are certainly clues that guide our understanding of the narrative, but this only really becomes useful towards the end, when the tension reaches a breaking point, and where there is very little option other than to just shuffle our existing knowledge around to find some semblance of logic. This is all part-and-parcel of Strickland’s work, and he certainly knows exactly how to handle such bizarre narrative structuring, turning it into rich and evocative storytelling.

Vital to the effect of the film is the people who exist at the heart of the story. The Duke of Burgundy is a character-based film, and naturally requires strong actors to take on these roles, since they’re present from beginning to end, challenging themselves in every single scene. Sidse Babett Knudsen and Chiara D’Anna are absolutely spellbinding as the two leads, playing into the psychosexual nature of the film with their ferocious and raw performances. Somehow, these character embody both the visceral and the glamorous, their meanderings through this intimidating countryside estate establishing a very peculiar tone. The shift in their dynamic is fascinating to watch, since the gradual movement from master to servant and back again forms the foundation of the film’s radical perspective on the human condition, and in particular the feminist leanings of the story. Babett Knudsen in particular stands out – as one of the most enigmatic and compulsively fascinating actors working in contemporary European cinema, she has a tendency to disappear into her roles, possessing a chameleonic set of talents that are often quite intimidating when they’re not utilized by a good screenplay, but truly revelatory when they’re harnessed by someone who understands the might of her talents. Strickland knows exactly how to arrange this character as the heart of the film, making her simultaneously a villain and victim, which is quite an anomaly for even the most abstract works of philosophically-charged absurdism. The Duke of Burgundy is very personal and intimate in terms of its characters’ perspectives, and Strickland ensures that, as ambigious as they may be in motive, that they’re never poorly constructed, since the viewer’s ability to surrender to this world of madness depends on characters that can carry the film.

As much as we want to try and rationalize what we are seeing on screen, this film is not one that is necessarily interested in the mechanics of logic, being driven less by coherency and more by a particular atmosphere, the kind of lingering complexity that has existed throughout the director’s fascinating career. This manifests particularly well in the tone, with Strickland once again making exceptional use of ambiguity. The vague nature of The Duke of Burgundy, whether it be something as simple as the setting or the more notable interpersonal relationships enrich the film and make it such a daring piece. This contrasts beautifully with the visual palette, which is as evocative as it is outright haunting. Nic Knowland’s cinematography is absolutely stunning – the lush, rich colour palette and the stoic but sinister manifestation of it leads to an unnerving experience that feels very much aligned with the more deceptive sides of the story. This works alongside the tone, which is exceptionally cold and disconcerting – the raw eroticism of these women and their relationship is absolutely terrifying, mostly because the viewer struggles to determine what is real, and what is just conjecture, the folly of lust-filled minds. We’re immersed into a dreamlike state, with the boundaries between reality and construction being far too ambigious for us to fully comprehend. It is a film caught in the hideous recesses between horror and romantic melodrama, and the director does not hesitate to explore these ideas to their full extent, gradually creating a radical psychosexual drama that has more to say about queer desire than almost any other similarly-themed film we’ve seen in the last decade, both in terms of the narrative and visual compositions that emerge from the director’s bizarre curiosity with this already very complex subject matter.

It’s difficult to imagine anyone other than Strickland being able to tell this story, since it is so steeped in his style, to the point where he is as much a distinct auteur as the many people who inspired him. The director may have only made a small handful of films, but each one feels genuinely complex, like a dense surrealist novel compressed into a series of existential tableaux, which gradually and methodically begin to interact to form harrowing stories that either border on horror or descend directly into it – and each moment is so well-constructed, we don’t even notice the terror until it fully surrounds us, with very little opportunity to escape from the brilliantly haunting clutches of a true master. The Duke of Burgundy carries a serious heft that rarely abates – the humour is consistently dark, and serves to terrify more than it does lighten the mood, and the extremely serious but self-aware performances from the two leads (as well as those in the periphery – the director’s muse, the beguiling Fatma Mohamed, has a scene-stealing role as a sinister visitor who complicates the central relationship) only contribute to the unsettling nature of the film. The Duke of Burgundy is a film that requires a lot of thought – it’s doubtful that any one interpretation will be proven to be superior to another. The mysteries that underpin the film are as enthralling as the moments of pure desire, to the point where the viewer doesn’t know whether to be entertained or terrified. This is all part of the experience, and while it may not be the standout work from his career so far, this film is just as captivating and thought-provoking as anything Strickland has made so far, which only confirms his unequivocal genius as one of the most enduring and enticing voices in contemporary art.